With a Heart as Willing
by kzal
Summary: Toby Williams didn't know he had a sister until a mysterious letter—accompanied by some very real money—informed him of her existence. When she shows up on his doorstep with a stolen child, he gets back the chance he lost: to know his sister... unless the Goblin King shows up to complicate things. Sequel to "As Easy Mayst Thou Fall," but can be read separately.
1. Happy New Year

_A/N: Welcome back! This story is a direct sequel to my previous work, "As Easy Mayst Thou Fall." While this story is its own tale, and can be read alone, it would be wise for a new reader to read that story first, to get a sense of the characters and the world of the Labyrinth as they have been fleshed out there. At the very least, read its epilogue, which could be equally placed as a prologue to this story._

_This story is giving me quite a bit more trouble than its predecessor, and with that in mind, I must also take a moment to acknowledge my indebtedness to my friend **etcetera nine**, without whose support, encouragement, and suggestions this story would be nothing more than a lonely first chapter stuck in a forgotten corner of my hard drive. If you haven't read her Labyrinth stories, get on it!_

_Disclaimer: Jareth and Sarah and Toby and the Labyrinth belong to Henson. I'm just playing in their sandbox._

* * *

**Chapter One: Happy New Year**

_January 2, 2011, 12:57 AM_

"I'm coming! I'm coming! God, hold your fucking horses. It's one in the morning!"

Toby yanked the door open, with some annoyance. It was never a good sign when someone was banging on your door after midnight. On his front step stood a young woman, something like his own age, wearing a bulky coat and carrying two huge duffel bags. She was also wearing way too much eye makeup.

"Toby!" she said. "Oh thank God." She pushed past him, into the apartment, and he moved back automatically. Who was she? "I'm so sorry I couldn't make it for Christmas. I got Above, but not to America."

"Christmas?" He blinked, a bit stupidly, and then he realized. A week ago, he'd spent seven hours standing around in the cold, in the park, and nothing had happened. "You're her, aren't you? You're my sister Sarah?" She looked far too young, maybe a year his senior, if that, but hadn't he thought on his own that that might happen?

"And I needed to be at your place, now, anyway, not your parents'," she went on, as though she hadn't heard. "You're the only one who might understand."

"Understand what? You're not making any sense. Are you Sarah?"

"What? Yes. I'm Sarah." She had dropped the bags, and she looked up at him again. There was something very strange about her eyes, in addition to the makeup; he couldn't quite put a finger on it. "Look, I'm sorry to just barge in here like this but I need—"

A strangled, quiet cry came from beneath her coat, and she unbuttoned it swiftly, shrugging it off to let it drop to the floor.

"Sssh, precious," she whispered, "I've got you." He saw that she had a baby strapped to her chest, young by the look of it, maybe six months old? He wasn't a very good judge. She was holding it in one of those sling things. She let the child grip her hand, stroking one finger down its cheek. "I know I'm not mama, little one, but you're safe with me." She closed her eyes, swallowed. "You're safe with me."

"Okay, what the fuck—" She glared at him, over the child's head, and he tried again. "Seriously, what are you doing here?"

She sighed. "I don't have anywhere else to go." She looked away. "Jareth... he can do this thing where people just accept him, just go along with it, even without money. I don't know how he does it. I can't just make people give me things up here. And I had to come all the way from Crete, with the baby. That's why it took me so long. I can 'port, and pictures work well enough, but it's exhausting. By the end I would've given someone their dreams for a plane ticket, if I could."

"From... what? Where? Look, I know you wrote that you were in Fairyland or something, but Crete? And who's Jareth?"

"Shit," she said, which he found rather hypocritical, since she'd glared at him for swearing. "Don't say his name. Call him... I don't know. I'll come up with something later. Hell, we can call him 'that rat.'" She sighed. "Hoggle would like that. Anyway. He's... my... partner."

"Your partner?" This was just getting more and more confusing. "Your partner in what? In crime? Did you steal that baby?"

She blinked at him, like a deer in headlights, and he started edging his hand towards his pocket, for his phone. Maybe he should call 911.

"Don't," she said, when his hand disappeared. "No, I didn't steal her… at least, not from her mom or her family. Listen, I told you where I've been. You got the letter. You read the book. You went to the park. I felt it. And even if you hadn't, the money was real, right? Tell me you didn't waste it."

"I—I haven't spent it, yet," he said. This conversation had just taken a very strange turn; he'd been on the offensive, but somehow she had regained authority. "I was waiting for something important."

She smiled. "Good for you." The baby, who had quieted under her earlier touch, began to cry, again. "I need to feed her," she said. "I stole some formula. It's in the bag. Can we get that ready? Then I promise I'll answer your questions. I know this is all a bit strange to you."

In the kitchen, she dumped out one of the bags, which seemed to contain nothing but baby supplies, some of which were labeled in foreign languages. Practiced hands measured formula, heated water.

"I used to do this for you," she said, testing the temperature on her wrist before offering the bottle to the infant.

"About that," he replied, slowly. "Why don't I remember?"

"Because I gave it up. All of me. When I chose to go Underground. I didn't even know if you'd get the money. I'm glad that worked—I had to put it in your name, not leave anything of me on the account."

"The letter stayed."

"Yeah, I imagine my thesis is around somewhere too, but no one reads it. Pity, I worked hard on that." She shrugged. "Well, I worked hard on most of it." Without an invitation, she walked out of the kitchen, settling herself on his small couch. He followed, determined to get some answers. At least she seemed talkative.

"So… who's the kid? You said you didn't steal her from her mom or her family… and I'll trust you on that... but who _did_ you steal her from?"

"Caught that, did you?" she chuckled. "Always knew you'd be a smart one. I stole her from my partner."

"That Ja—"

"Don't!" She shot him a warning glance, both hands still occupied with the baby. "He might hear you. He can do that. And yeah, him."

"You call him your partner," he said, slowly. "Your partner in… what?"

She laughed, a little bitterly. "Not crime, Toby. I picked that word because… well, he's not my husband—we aren't married—and he hasn't been my lover for some time. But I'm still… his." She sighed, and smiled, somewhere between wistful and resigned. "And he's mine, I suppose."

"So... you stole a baby... from your ex-lover who..." Suddenly, Toby felt very, very slow. He knew who she'd gone away with, and he'd read the little red book. "Your ex-lover who steals babies for a living."

"Not so much steal as..." She shrugged. "It's a long story. But it's not stealing. And yeah, that's about it."

"So someone wished that kid away?"

Looking sober, she nodded. "Yes. Her mother. Poor kid was only sixteen... her family kicked her out when she got pregnant, and then the father bailed on her too." She lifted the child to her shoulder and began to pat her back. "She actually tried the Labyrinth, despite all her troubles with the kid, but she didn't make it. I guess she's back in her perfect teenage life, now." The baby gave a little burp, and Sarah lowered her to her chest, rocking her gently. "Almost makes me miss high school. God, never thought I'd say that."

"Gossip is a bit simpler than real life, that kind of thing?" Toby laughed; he'd felt that way too, a few times. He missed college even more. "Even though it felt like the end of the world at the time."

"I'm sorry I missed that for you, Toby," she said, quietly.

"Ahh, don't—look, I don't remember you being around ever, so don't worry about it, okay? It seems like you had... something else to do. Though you haven't got around to explaining why you are stealing babies from your baby-stealing ex-lover."

"Can—can you stop calling him that? It's not as simple as you're making it sound, and it—I mean, I—nevermind. Just. Partner, okay?"

"Sure, whatever." He yawned, then; a wide, jaw-cracking motion, and scrubbed his hand across his face. The adrenaline from the door-knocking was wearing off. "Listen... Sarah... You said you don't have anywhere else to go?" Mutely, she shook her head. "'Cause you're on the run or some shit. Right. Okay. I only got the one bed, but I can make up the couch for you. You got somewhere in that giant bag to stash the kid?"

"No... but hang on, maybe I can..." She frowned for a moment, and closed her eyes, concentrating, and then flicked her hand down and back up, like she had a yo-yo. She opened her eyes and looked at her empty hand. "Damn. One more try. He makes it look so _easy_." She made the flicking motion again, and this time, in her hand, she held a small, clear, glass ball. Sleight of hand? "Not enough for a full crib," she said, holding it up to the light. "But I think I can..." She flipped it off her fingers and a simple, small bassinet appeared on the living room floor. "There." She sounded satisfied. "She'll be too old for it as soon as she rolls over, but I should be able to focus up something bigger in a few days."

Holy fuck. She made a glass ball into a bassinet.

"You can do—magic?"

"Yeah." She smiled, a bit sheepish. "I was expecting more of a reaction, actually."

"I think I'm a bit too tired. And a bit too stunned." He blinked again, shaking his head. "We can talk about this... tomorrow. All of it." He got a blanket from the hall closet and a pillow from his bed, and handed them over. "Bathroom's down the hall. Good night... sis."

* * *

Toby flopped back into his bed. In the other room, he could hear the girl—Sarah—puttering around a little bit, but after a while, the noises stopped.

Sarah. The girl from the letter was here, in his apartment. Here, in his apartment, and doing magic, with a baby she had stolen from the Goblin King.

How had his life gotten so weird, so quickly? Then again, if he was going to trust Sarah, his life had been a bit weird practically from the start. The weirdness had just been pushed aside, awaiting an opportunity to pop back up and bite him in the ass.

She looked... strange. Not quite human. Also smoking hot, which was probably not something he should be thinking considering the relationship she claimed, but _damn_, and you can't condemn a guy for noticing. Then again, maybe some of the strangeness was the makeup, though why she would take time to apply extravagant black and silver eye makeup when she was running all over the world with a baby and stolen goods, he didn't know. Maybe she wanted to make a good impression? Not that it had; it was more just... weird. Maybe it was in fashion back when she disappeared? He didn't really remember… that would have been… 1998? He hadn't noticed girls much, back then. Certainly he didn't remember makeup.

Whatever. She'd answer his questions, _all_ his questions, tomorrow, or she could find a new place to go. Even if it meant… okay, damn, he couldn't put a baby out on the street in January. That wouldn't be fair to the kid. Well, he'd keep the kid—call the police or something—get her adopted by a good family—and Sarah could go on her merry way, back to her goblin lover. Ex-lover. Partner. Whatever.

He spared a moment to wonder if maybe she was just _a fucking crazy person_, but no. There was no way. This was way too complicated to be a delusion. She had to be telling the truth. And the money had been real.

He rolled over, and pulled out the shoebox of little items he kept under his bed. He had meant to buy some sort of table to put next to the bed, but he hadn't yet taken the time. Inside the box, along with some childhood mementos, he found the letter she'd written him.

He read it through, and then read it again. The letter wasn't very detailed, but as far as it went, her story matched. The story in the letter didn't quite match the red book, but she'd told him that she'd read the book herself, so that made sense. It would be rather circular if the book she'd read as a girl told _her_ story. Then again, she'd just turned a fucking glass ball into a bassinet… but did that mean she could re-order time?

His only concept of magic came from Harry Potter, which was made up and she was real, but it made sense that just like in Harry Potter, Transfiguration, or whatever-the-fuck she'd done with the glass ball, was easier than time travel. She probably couldn't travel through time.

Probably.

He turned out the light, and lay back, absently flicking on his iPhone to check Facebook, in search of some sort of distraction. He scrolled through status updates, but the most interesting ones concerned nothing more than a detailed description of a New Year's hangover. _Long lost sister showed up on doorstep_, he thought. That was the kind of thing you usually posted a status about, but he didn't. Not even a vague one. Mom would see, and then there would be questions, and it would all go to shit.

Mom. Shit.

Today was Sunday—well, it was Sunday now that midnight had passed. Dad would be in town for business next week, and they were planning to come down Friday evening, expecting to spend the weekend with him. They'd want to talk about work, and when was he coming home again, and was there a girl in his life, and was he really _happy_ here, in the city? It would make no difference that they'd seen him at Christmas and barely two weeks would have passed. He was still working for an accounting firm and studying for the CPA exam, a job that he didn't particularly care about but at least it made decent money and would make more; he wasn't coming home again until there was a major holiday or they forced him; he hadn't had a girlfriend since Erin left him to go to school in California; and his job was here, his friends were here, his life was here, so no, he didn't want to move back to the suburbs, thank you _so_ very much.

But as hard as it is when your only relationship with your parents consists of either the sort of small talk you'd make with strangers, or intense prying into your personal life, that was nothing compared to the insanity that would ensue if they showed up, without warning, to find him living with a girl who looked his age and had a baby. His mother would have his head. His father would ask why he hadn't done right by her.

If they tried to pass off some version of the truth—that they had met because Sarah was Linda Williams' daughter—that would raise other questions. And Mom… Mom hated Linda Williams. She might not notice, without the connection being spelled out, but if they tried that… Sarah looked very much like Linda, once you got past her weirdness.

He flicked off the phone and rolled over, yawning. Maybe she could be a friend of a friend? Whatever. It was too late—too early—for more of this. Tomorrow. The bullshit would resume tomorrow.

* * *

A baby was crying. Why the fuck was a baby crying? The neighbors didn't have kids. A baby was crying and it was _fucking loud_, like it was coming from the living room.

Toby rolled over, so that he could see the clock. Six AM. He could hear movement in the other room, along with crying. Right. Baby. Sarah was in there, with the baby.

He jammed the pillow over his head, trying to drown out the noise, but it was like fingernails on a chalkboard; nothing could keep it out. After a few minutes passed with no change, he gave up. So much for sleeping in on Sunday. Hell, so much for getting more than four hours.

"Sssh, oh honey hush, please." Sarah was pacing back and forth in front of the television, rocking the baby against her shoulder. "Hush, precious, you're going to wake Uncle Toby, please, go to sleep."

"Uncle Toby?" he asked, a little annoyed. "Since when am I 'Uncle Toby?'"

"Since you're my brother, and she's mine," Sarah snapped back, and then something in her face softened. "I'm sorry. Maybe I should have asked. And I didn't mean for her to wake you." She looked at the child again, and frowned. "She's clean and fed and not cold and… I don't know what she needs."

"Maybe she needs her mother." Sarah recoiled from him when he said it, and glared, but he wasn't going to feel bad about it. It was probably true.

"Well, she can't have her mother. She has me." She shifted the baby to her other arm, and stopped pacing, settling for rocking back and forth. Thankfully, the wailing had settled down into a quieter, fussy sort of whine; irritating, but at least they could hear each other. One little fist scrubbed at her eyes. Sarah shushed her again.

"She could. Couldn't you give her back?"

"No." For a moment, she seemed disinclined to go on, but she caught his disbelieving look. "I checked in on her mom this morning. She thinks she's dead." She frowned. "It's odd, actually, but there must be a reason."

"What? Odd? No! That's horrible! You have to go to her!" What kind of person was his sister, to keep a mother from her child?

"No. No, I really don't. I really _shouldn't_, either." The rocking seemed to be working; the child was only whimpering now. "Listen, Toby, I know this is a lot to take in, but you have to trust me, here." She eyed him, and he felt suddenly scruffy, standing there in his pajamas while she looked immaculate. How did she do that, anyway? Was she dressed differently than she had been the night before? He hadn't seen anything in the bags but baby stuff.

Whatever. "Trust you? I'm trying, since best as I can tell you do seem to be who you say you are, but you're really asking a lot, here. You alone would be enough to take. You and a stolen baby…." He covered a yawn. "Since I'm up, I'm going to make coffee, and you're going to give me some answers."

After a few minutes, she followed him into the kitchen, watching as he set the coffee maker dripping. The baby seemed to be asleep, finally, but as he watched, she whined again, and scrubbed her face against Sarah's chest. Sarah stood by the stove, continuing her rocking motion.

"You take sugar? Milk?" he asked, softly.

"Sugar, and cream if you have it," she answered, in the same tone.

"Just milk," he shrugged. "It's full fat, though."

"That'll do."

They stood in silence while the coffee brewed, Sarah still rocking the baby, who wasn't moving. Truly asleep, then. He prayed she stayed that way, at least a few hours. When the coffee was done, he poured to mugs and sat down at the table, getting sugar from the cabinet and milk from the fridge. Sarah took her mug and sipped, thoughtfully, then doctored it carefully and raised it again. She took a long swallow, and closed her eyes, sighing with pleasure.

"You would not believe how long it's been since I've had good coffee," she said, catching his eye as she lowered her mug.

"You can't just… magic it up?" He reminded himself to keep his voice low; he did _not _want more crying baby this morning.

She sighed. "No. I'm not strong enough for that; everything I make tastes like dishwater and sawdust, and has about the same nutritional value. _He_ can make the most amazing things, but he doesn't like coffee, so it all comes out just tasting like ground dirt and bitterness." She laughed, almost fondly, and took another sip. "And you don't really need caffeine, so much, in the Underground. But you don't really care about _his_ failings as a barista."

"Well, it's funny, but no." He leaned forward, placing both elbows on the table, his mug held between both hands. He'd caught the emphasis on the masculine, the way she said it like a proper noun. _Goblin King. Jareth. Partner._

"So, what do you want to know?" She sat back, mug in one hand; the other still supported the baby, who was now so asleep that her arms and legs dangled, completely limp.

"Everything?" He tried to laugh, but it still sounded like a demand. "I read your letter, yeah, but it was pretty vague, all that 'once upon a time.' So why don't you just start at the beginning."

* * *

_A/N: I put this disclaimer on my previous story as well: this story is rated M and may include adult content. I do not put _**SMUT WARNING **_on individual chapters, as I like to be surprised when I'm reading fic myself. If you don't want to read it, stop where it starts and skip to the next line break. However, I don't write smut just for the sake of smut, so you may miss important plot or character bits._

_A note on updates: At this point, I have written about 35,000 words of this story, including the first five chapters and most of six and seven; some additional later material (mostly climax); and an outline of the story as I conceive it now. I will update once per week as long as I have pre-written material, and it's my hope that I'll be able to write ahead and continue updating at that pace. Because of its structure, this story requires a lot more writing ahead than As Easy did. The next update is completely finished and is planned for December 28th, 2012._


	2. A New Life

****_A/N: Be sure to note the date at the top of the chapter. Chapter One was dated January 2, 2011._

* * *

**Chapter Two: A New Life**

_423 Days (January 22, 1999)_

Jareth sprawled in his throne, a battered paperback in his hands. The room was full of goblins; he was accustomed to the cacophony. There were patterns in the noise that after long enough had come to sound like music; those patterns had even inspired the occasional composition. He had worried about that, at first, but after a while he wrote it off as overactive imagination, or maybe just too much brainpower. He had never been able to learn not to think, but he could focus better if part of his mind was occupied with something else. He had been focused on the book, but at a break in the narrative, he allowed his mind to drift the direction it had so often wandered these past years.

_Sarah_. She was the only thing, the only _person_, he had ever been able to focus on to the exclusion of others, frequently with conversation and nearly always with her touch. He lay back, drawing a crystal into his free hand, and thought of her, finding her easily. She was with _that dwarf_, he saw, and frowned. They were playing some game that seemed to involve a great many semiprecious gemstones, and she was laughing, her eyes shining with pleasure.

Once, the sight would have darkened the room, but he had seen her laugh like that, and had been its cause, often enough in the past days to dampen the jealousy that once had nearly ruled him. And though part of him longed to have her near at every moment, balm for hundreds of years of loneliness and eleven years of silence, he knew also that they were better for these brief partings, and that she would be glad to see him, this evening, when he came for her. Today would be exceptionally Long, and so would the night be. And the night held the promise of things _that dwarf_ was not built to imagine.

Sarah had been after him, recently, on the subject of the dwarf. "He could be a valuable ally," she had said, "if you two would get over disliking each other." The irritating thing was that he could not get the thought out of his head. _The dwarf_ was the most complete personality in the Labyrinth, apart from Sarah and Jareth himself. He would never _improve_, but he was intelligent enough to recognize signs of decay. A useful ally, indeed, especially if Jareth ever had a reason to journey Above for any length of time.

Jareth was not accustomed to being wrong, but Sarah challenged him at every turn. It was frequently exhilarating, but often exhausting, and occasionally frustrating, especially when she was in the right.

Well. If the little scab wanted to make amends, Jareth would hear him out. He turned back to the book.

* * *

Nine hours, twenty-six minutes, and ten seconds later, he was deep into the book's climax when the sudden quiet of the room drew his attention. Then the whispers started: "the girl! The girl!" He waited to hear The One Who Asks Questions punctuate the cries with a heavy, "What girl?" before looking up. The One Who Knows the Answer hissed at him that it was "The girl who cuddles with the king, you fool," and Sarah looked briefly annoyed.

"Sarah." He extended a hand, drawing her attention, and she approached to take it, stepping carefully around the goblins in her way. It was endearing, the way she was so gentle with them, even when she was annoyed with them, and even though she knew that they did not object to being simply pushed around. _She would be wonderful with children. _He pushed away that painful thought, pulling her down to sit on the edge of the throne, and she leaned in for a kiss. She smelled like the outdoors, sunlight and old grass and dust, and she tasted of salt, of the honest sweat of exercise. For a moment everything else faded away, and there was only her; he thought he could spend eternity sampling her variety.

He pulled himself together as she snuggled into his shoulder, bringing the book around behind her head to continue reading. She sighed, and closed her eyes.

"This author builds an intriguing world," he said, his thoughts returning to the path they had been on before her entrance, "but he overburdens his story with obscure vocabulary." He frowned at the page. "I speak excellent English, but even I require context to discern what is intended by the description of these beings as 'ornately and garishly caparisoned like a royal cadre.' Additionally, the description would be more effective if it were more exact. He gains nothing by his verbosity."

"'Gains nothing by his verbosity?'" she parroted back. "I think he's rubbing off on you. What are you reading?" Sarah twisted around to look; he took the opportunity to plant a kiss behind her ear, enjoying the way she jumped and then leaned into him. "Ah. I have mixed feelings about that series… the world-building is great and the plot interesting, but the main character took it right off my re-read list. The rape…."

"He is not a good man," Jareth concurred, "but neither has the world been kind to him." The main character was a normal man, asked to take on a burden and a duty far beyond that which should have been demanded of him. Although Jareth knew that he himself had chosen to stay, had chosen this duty, he could relate. There had been times when he had resented his lot; many times. And even that act which caused her to despise the protagonist… Jareth would never tell Sarah how hard it had been to rein himself in, those tortuous days before she finally accepted him. _All the sweeter, when she is willing_, he had told himself, and _do not give up eternity for the present_; even then, waking in her bed, with her in his arms, had moved him like the sweetest torture, love and desire too long denied.

"Mm." Sarah laid her head against his shoulder again, and again he stopped to indulge in the softness of her body, against his; the warmth of her breath at his neck. _My Sarah_. His empty hand came up to stroke her back, and she snuggled closer, her nose pressing into the skin of his throat.

They stayed there, in silence, as he finished the book, another sixteen minutes and four seconds. He might have thought that Sarah slept, but for the fingers that occasionally stroked his chest, or played with the laces of his shirt, a minor distraction from the text. Still, he was content, if she was. She sat up when he shifted to put the book down.

"Well?" she asked.

"It is as I said before," he answered. The book bore strong marks of Tolkien's influence, as well as strong imagination on the author's part, and perhaps other fairly recent influences as well.

"But is there another link? Does it help?" She asked this after every story that he finished, even though most of the time, the answer was no.

"Have you seen anything in the Labyrinth which is reflected in this story?"

"I haven't, no, but you know it better than I do. And you know what you've recorded in your ledgers, over the years." It was true. He had piles of the things—more than he wanted to think about. The fact that he could not recall a specific, recent link did not mean the story was not or could not be connected to the Underground; his memory was good, but not infallible.

She was frowning at him. He leaned forward, and kissed her. She opened to him with a little sigh, sweet surrender, and all his worries and thoughts and even the ever-present, itchy timesense backed into the far corner of his mind as he let himself drown in her. _My weakness_. He lost himself in the feel of her soft lips, the caress of her tongue, a kiss that made demands and then answered them, but that also fanned the embers of that flame that had burned in him ever since her journey through his Labyrinth, ever since she had danced in his arms and looked at him with both innocence and desire. _Mine_. Before that dance, he had loved her; then and thereafter he also _wanted._

Her hands came up to frame his face, her fingers stroking gently across his cheekbones and up into his hair, caressing his ears in passing, and he pressed her closer, hungry now. The book was forgotten; it fell from his hand, and he registered but ignored the squawk of protest from the goblin it bonked on the head as it fell behind the throne.

"Beloved," he breathed, against her lips. "Come." At the brief distraction, he noticed that the kiss had lasted eighty-seven seconds.

"Yes," she answered, and he transported them in the moment, catching her against his chest as she stumbled at the change in position. He loved this strength, this little power over her, that he could guide her, that he could keep her well and safe as they moved through space. Someday she might have that power as well; he wanted it and feared it in equal part. _Mine. Mine._

He had brought her right to her bedroom; she never closed the doors, anymore. His hands stroked down her sides to cup her bottom, and she arched against him as he lowered his mouth to taste the skin of her throat, salt and heat and sweet softness. Her fingers curved against his back—she'd got under the hem of his shirt—and he groaned with pleasure as she touched and then dug into a tense muscle, soothing away a knot. She laughed, softly, and kissed his ear, supporting him with one arm around his waist as the other hand worked over him, seeking more sore spots. He helped her, leaning his arms on her bedpost for balance and support.

"Just lay down," she whispered, sliding her hands up to pull the shirt over his head. He was happy to be her slave, in this; he let his legs give out and dropped onto the bed on his stomach, as gracefully as he could manage. "It's the way you sprawl on that throne," she continued, her hands working slowly down his spine. "Have you ever thought to replace it with something more comfortable? Something with, say, padding?"

Had she asked him that before? Probably not. He tracked her fingers and counted seconds and noticed the soft cotton of her skirt against his bare skin. She wore skirts more often, the longer she stayed. He never asked, but she knew he preferred it. Two minutes and five seconds into her massage, she moved down and grabbed his buttocks, one in each hand, and he dismissed his pants and his boots with a lazy wave. She laughed, and pressed a kiss to the base of his spine, digging her fingers into the muscle. He did wear clothes with fastenings, now, sometimes, because she liked taking them off, but he hadn't thought to see her so early, today.

She leaned over his back, kissing the base of his neck, and he rolled, a little, to capture her with one arm, pushing her onto her back and leaning over her. One heel traced up his calf. She had kicked off her shoes. He kissed her again, rougher, more urgently.

A sense memory tingled, past the feeling of her lips. He had noted earlier that she smelled of dust and grass and sun and outdoors; he remembered now that this was how she had smelled the first time they made love. She had been in the Labyrinth that day, as well. She had been looking for _him_. It was the first time he had been the pursued, rather than pursuer. _She chose me_. It still astonished him.

_They stand in the hall, where he had transported them, and she is pressed against him, standing far closer than the magic required. She had said she had something to tell him, but she seems frozen, or perhaps in no rush to move forward. Will she deny him again? No. She will tell him. After all the pain and hiding, the time for secrets is through. Forty-eight seconds, they have been standing here, and yet she does not move, she does not speak. But he can feel her growing tension, hear her pounding heart. Is she afraid?_

_No. Not fear. He is watching her eyes now, darkening, and she is staring at his mouth, not blinking. She is breathing faster, and her fingers tighten against his spine, and suddenly he finds himself not just willing for but actually fighting for control, fighting to stand still, to wait for her, to do anything other than shove her against the wall and fuck her until she likes it. Sixty-seven seconds, now._

_He knows he is losing the battle, knows it shows in his face, but she shows no fear. It is more than his imagination; she wants this too. She wants him, too. _Say your right words, beloved. Before I lose my mind. _But knowing she wants him frays him just a little more, and like a wave crashing on the seashore he is moving to kiss her, even if she hates him for it, even if it destroys their tenuous happiness. But as his lips seek hers she moves, too, and then she is kissing him, fierce and relentless as the undertow, and nothing has been ruined, after all._

In his arms, Sarah gasped, her hands clenching at his shoulders as he stroked a thumb across her bare nipple. _The only one who makes me lose time; even when I remember her I forget…._ But it was catching up, now, seventy-three seconds he'd been remembering as he undressed her, as he drowned in her kisses, past and present mingled. He dropped his mouth to her breast, a moment, relishing the taste of warm sweet skin, the way the sensitive nipple puckered and changed at his attentions, the way Sarah rewarded him with a moan, her hand coming up to hold the back of his head.

"So beautiful, my love," he whispered as he dropped lower, removing her remaining clothing, breathing in the scent of her desire. He could taste her already, scent and memory, as he had tasted her that first day and so many days since.

_He has never been this vulnerable, with another; never so lost, never so disarmed. He wants to tell her, wants her to know that more than loneliness moves him, that he has wanted her so long, that she is the most wondrous creature he knows, that he is hers forever. In some strange way his mind is clearing, now that she is kissing him back, now that she is holding him as tightly and as desperately as he holds her. He tries to say it, tries to tell her that they can stop, a little, if she wishes, but she will not permit it. Never did he imagine that she could be his match for passion. He cannot stop; she demands that he continue. _Your slave, beloved. As ever. _"Don't stop," she breathes, and he is lost._

"Don't stop!" she begged, her voice echoing his thoughts. His tongue had been working over her, two minutes and forty-six seconds, her arousal heavy and sweet in his mouth, on his chin, her hips thrusting, though he held her down. He pressed harder, holding her still, and resumed his attentions, drawing her to the edge of bliss, that edge he could hear in her voice, feel in her trembling thighs, see as her sex swelled with blood, taste again on his tongue. One more touch, with a bit of heat, and she was gone, over the edge, her scream music to his ears as her leg clenched behind his head, holding him in place. He could feel her muscles tense, and twitch, even as her leg released him and he rose to claim a kiss. She reached between them, as he moved, her hand closing around him, stroking gently. There, too, was a memory, that first caress that had nearly undone him, but he pushed it aside, this time; she deserved his full attention, when he made love to her. He would not be distracted by anyone, even their past.

He allowed her guide him close before he took over, hooking her leg up over his hip to ease his access and deepen the angle. He closed his eyes as he brought their bodies together, as she thrust up to help him; this was always wonderful, always new. _Mine. Together. Always._

* * *

She smelled like sun, and sweat, and sex, now, as they lay, entangled in each other, on the rumpled covers of her bed.

"Mmm," she hummed, nuzzling into his neck, "I'm glad I came back early."

"Why did you? I expected to retrieve you later."

She shrugged, and snuggled closer. "You shouldn't have to come get me every day; it's not fair. And I want to learn more ways through the Labyrinth, which I don't if you're always popping me around. And…" she tucked her head into his neck, her arms and legs tightening around him, "I missed you."

_I missed you_. He kissed her hair; his fingers tightened where they rested on her arm, on her hip. _I missed you_.

"So," she said, propping herself up on one elbow. He rolled onto his back, as she looked down at him. "You never did tell me if there were any connections in that book." Ah, but neither had he said there was none. Had she caught it? "Even if there aren't Labyrinth connections, what about your Dreams, or other Underground links?" Still, he must disappoint her again.

"Nothing other than the obvious, and that tenuous at best."

"The obvious?" He waited. She would make the connection. "Oh, the ring."

"The ring." He nodded. "A true retelling of the _Völsungasaga _would serve much better. A mere ring of power is not enough to truly bring a story to my attention." The last such had been some one hundred and forty years ago; he had felt the connection, and done his best to encourage it, but he had not been able to get Above, to hear the work itself. It was harder, when the connected kingdom was gone.

"Are you going upstairs tonight?" she asked, pulling him away from faint memories of his family's home, where he had spent so little time.

"I am. The author lives, unlike your Tolkien; perhaps I can reach him." It was still afternoon in America, where the man resided. She began to sit up, but he stopped her, pulling her down again. "We have a few hours yet, beloved."

_Save your plans for longer days; they will keep_, he had told her, the night she had returned to him. If only they could save them forever; if only they could simply _be_.

* * *

_A/N: So, does anyone know what book Jareth was reading? Don't worry; we aren't going to review everything Sarah brought back with her. Still, if you can guess, you get a virtual cookie, or possibly a bigger prize, if only one or two people know it._

_The Völsungasaga is one of the two major epic poems and myths which are the source of the material for Richard Wagner's Ring Cycle operas; the other is the Nibelungenlied. They both contain several characters out of Norse myth._

_On updates: I know I said this would be the 28th, but I won't be able to get to a computer tomorrow or Friday, so I figured early was better than late. The next update will be January 4, 2013._


	3. Goodwill

**Chapter Three: Goodwill**

_January 2, 2011, 8:53 AM_

"So let me get this straight." Three cups of coffee later, Toby was only just starting to think that he might have a grip on the weirdness of his life. "Your mom is only famous because the—_He_—granted her the life of her dreams in exchange for you?" Sarah nodded. "Which means I only exist because your mother is a selfish bitch who wished you away and then didn't even fight hard enough to get you back."

Sarah winced at this. "I guess." She sighed. "But Toby, I hope you don't think I…" she trailed off.

"I don't know," he told her, honestly. "I mean, I'm not really thrilled that you wanted me gone, but I understand a little better. Hell, part of me wanted to get rid of that little girl this morning, just because she was loud. And you didn't know it would happen, and you fought to get me back. And you aren't my _mother_."

"My mother didn't know it would happen, either," she said softly. "I don't think anyone really does, until _he_ shows up." There was that fond smile, again. "He knows how to make an entrance, that's for sure. Did I tell you he can turn into an owl?" She paused, then, looking more serious; when she spoke again, she changed the subject. "What do you remember? About your childhood?"

He thought back. "A lot of babysitters," he said, finally. "None of them stand out. Mom and Dad were gone, a lot. She likes to go with him when he travels."

Sarah nodded. "That's what I remember, too. Only it wasn't a lot of babysitters, not at first, anyway. It was me. Every time, almost, until I moved out when you were four, to go to college, and then me again when I was home for breaks. And even when they were home, Karen was always calling me to get this or that for you, because she was cooking something ridiculously complicated or she had just done her hair or she didn't want you to spit up on her new blouse." She paused. "Er… sorry. I probably shouldn't talk about your mom that way."

Toby shrugged. He was used to his mother's ways, and while she seemed to enjoy having him around to poke at and brag about, she didn't seem to like babies much, or even small children. He remembered very well how she'd restricted his toys to his bedroom, because God forbid the first floor of the house look like it was lived in instead of a page out of a fucking catalogue.

"That helps, actually," he said. "I think I do understand. Not that it's thrilling, but I get it. Mom probably wasn't the easiest person to live with, especially when you'd been an only child so long."

Sarah nodded again. "Yes. And like you said, I was your sister, and a hormonal teenager, not your mother." She paused a moment, looking thoughtful. "That was really the first lesson the Labyrinth taught me: that what I was going through wasn't your fault. You weren't even verbal yet." In her arms, the child stirred; tiny fists clenched and little toes curled as knees and elbows bent. Waking, she fussed again, and banged her head into Sarah's sternum. He sighed. At least she wasn't screaming.

"I should feed her," Sarah said, standing up. Last night, she had dumped the duffel out, heedlessly, and he'd gone to bed with the kitchen a mess, but today she had stacked the formula containers on the counter, along with another bottle and various supplies he only vaguely recognized as baby-related. Had she slept, at all? She didn't look tired. "And then—I know this is a lot to ask, but—I need—I mean, I've been stealing—" She broke off, and sighed. "I need diapers and wipes and things, and I'd rather they were paid for. Plus, I don't have anything for myself… I dressed myself magically, today, but I'd rather save my strength."

"Save your strength? In case, what, you need to run?"

For a moment she looked shocked, and then she made a face he couldn't quite interpret. "Well, maybe. But more so that I can make the bigger things that she'll need, and maybe do some things for you, too. I mean, if you'll… if you'll let us stay." She pressed her lips together, looking suddenly very unsure.

If he'd let them stay.

"I'll take you shopping," he said, finally. "We can go to Target, first, for the stuff you don't want to buy used, and then there's a Goodwill not too far away that should be open in the afternoon. As to the rest… there's still more that we need to talk about, but I'm not going to kick you out tonight."

"Thank you, Toby," she said, sincerely. "I really appreciate the way you're taking all this."

"Well, I won't deny that it's weird, but at least it's interesting." As she laughed, he stood, placing their mugs in the sink, and crossed to his bedroom. "I'm gonna shower, while you feed her, and then we'll go."

When he emerged, he found her standing at his bookshelf, trailing a hand across one row of books. She looked ready to go; the baby was secured in the wrap, her head resting on Sarah's chest.

"What's _Harry Potter_?" she asked, and he found himself blinking stupidly. She didn't know about _Harry Potter_?

"I thought you were into fantasy and things? You've never heard of him?"

She pulled the first book, opening it to the title page. "September 1998. I left in July." She looked at him. "On your birthday." She flipped back to the book jacket, and scanned the summary, frowning slightly. "I'm surprised your mom let you read this. She was always after me about my 'fairy stories.'"

"I think she liked it because I actually wanted to read it," he answered. "Not that I hated reading, really, but when a new one came out that was _all_ I wanted to do. Makes something to brag about, telling other moms that you have to threaten your kid to get him to put the book down and go to bed. Though actually, with those books, a lot of moms got to make that boast."

"I see," she said. The baby shifted, again, and she put the book down reluctantly. "We should go while she's in a good mood."

"Sarah," he said, remembering something that had only occurred to him when he'd gone to change, "what's her name?"

She looked down at the little girl resting on her chest. "I… I don' t know, actually. What name her mother gave her. I guess I'll have to think of one." She sighed. "Are you ready?"

"Yeah, but…." Looking at her again, he realized that somewhere in the past few hours her strange makeup had started to seem normal, like it fit her. Even so, it would draw a lot of attention. "Look, I don't really remember what fashion was like, before, but can you maybe wash off some of that paint? I mean, unless you want everyone to stare at you. You're a bit old for the goth look."

"Paint?" She looked bewildered.

"Or whatever… eyeliner? On your face."

"Oh," she said, and put a hand to her cheek, rubbing her fingers over her skin as though the sensation was new to her. "I… it isn't makeup." He stepped closer, examining her, and found that what she said was true: the skin of her eyelids was actually darker, more regular than a birthmark, more like a tattoo, and the mark swept up to meet her eyebrows, which he noticed now were slanted almost completely up, rather than arching like a normal human brow. Between the tattoo-like mark and the hair of her brow, the skin glittered, as though embedded with tiny flakes of diamond.

"Anyway," she pulled away from him, "I think I can fix it. Give me a minute." She went down the hall to the bathroom, and he waited, thinking.

He wanted her to stay.

It didn't make any sense—it would complicate his life extraordinarily—where would she even sleep? And she had the baby! But in some strange way, in less than twelve hours, the weirdness had started to feel _right_, like he'd found something he hadn't even known was missing.

They would need a bigger place. A two bedroom, maybe. The baby could sleep in with her. Now he was thankful that he'd only taken a six-month lease the last time he renewed on this place. He'd done it in the hope that he'd pass his exam, get promoted, and be able to afford something better. Of course, maybe he couldn't afford better, if he was going to be supporting them, too.

Was he really considering saddling himself with a family? A family that wasn't even exactly his? What would his responsibilities be? And hers? What would she expect of him? Would he be watching the kid? What would other women think?

Fuck. Other women. If he did this, that's exactly what he _wouldn't_ be doing, most likely. Fucking other women—any women. And while right now his intriguing long-lost sister was fascinating and amazing and more interesting than a hazy unknown college girl, even with the baby baggage, he knew he wouldn't be feeling quite so chaste the next time he met the guys at the bar down by the university or got invited to a party. And he didn't always go out just looking to get laid—he liked to at least enjoy the girl's company, not just her body—but he knew he'd be fooling himself if he thought he wanted to give up the option of bringing her home. And what about Sarah? Would she mind?

Or if he started seeing someone seriously, again… how would she take the thought of her man living with a beautiful woman with no husband or partner in sight? And then there was the baby; most would assume the girl was Sarah's, and probably also think she'd ended up pregnant through carelessness, and was therefore loose, and not to be trusted.

The same assumption his parents would make.

He still wanted her to stay.

He couldn't say why. It just felt… _right_. In spite of the very real obstacles, he wanted it to work out.

He had two weeks until he had to give his landlord notice, if he was moving out; he could let her stay two weeks. It meant handling his parents, but that couldn't be helped; they'd figure out something. And in two weeks, he could have a decision.

Unless, of course, the Goblin King caught her, first.

* * *

"Better?" He was startled out of his reverie by Sarah's return, and for a moment he simply _stared_.

In some ways, yes, it was better. In others, it was worse.

She looked normal, now; human. That was good. Her strange markings were gone and her eyebrows curved normally. But those weren't the only changes. Before, she had looked almost too perfect, like a goddess, someone you put on a pedestal and admired, but couldn't touch. Now, her once-perfect pale skin, though still clear, had a hint of human ruddiness, and her eyes, once so green they nearly glowed, now simply—_simply!—_sparkled with life. Nor he had not noticed how perfectly symmetrical her features had been, until he saw her now, the corners of her eyes turning slightly differently, and her nostrils describing minutely asymmetrical ovals.

Though mankind prized symmetry as a standard of beauty, none ever attained it in perfection. Before, she had been too perfect, something in her appearance suggesting that she was not quite of this world. Now, she looked like the woman every man would want to go home with: perfect enough to be drop-dead gorgeous, but just imperfect enough to be real.

If he let her stay, his sex life would _definitely_ suffer. Then again, if he did want to get serious again, it would be a perfect test to see if the girl was The One: if she had enough confidence in herself and faith in him to trust him with and about Sarah, in spite of appearances.

Abruptly, he realized he'd been staring, and Sarah was starting to give him a _look_, some odd mix of curiosity and impatience.

"Yeah," he said, thankful his voice didn't sound as hoarse as he'd feared it would. "That's… better." He shook himself, and pulled his phone out, flicking to Maps. "Are you okay to walk there? The Target is about a mile away. If you're hungry, there's a great place on the way."

"I'm good to walk anywhere," she said, sounding somewhat distracted. "I walked all the time, in the Labyrinth. What is that?" She had come up behind him and was standing on her toes, trying to see the screen in his hand.

"It's an iPhone," he answered, frowning at her. "A smartphone. You know. Cell phone."

"I _don't_ know, remember?" she said, and he did his best to mentally scroll back. It had been so long, he felt like he'd had a cell phone forever, but surely….

"They had cell phones in 1998. I remember Dad had one."

"Yeah," she answered, "but they were…" she gestured, indicating a size about the same height as his iPhone 4, slightly narrower in width, and far, far thicker. He wouldn't want to keep that in his pocket; far too uncomfortable. "And they had actual buttons, and no directions," she concluded.

"This has more than just directions," he told her. "It plays music, and has games, and I can get email and the internet. It works with a touch screen." He poked the screen, showing her how it responded to his fingers. She watched, mesmerized. "Actually, we should get you one, while we're out," he said. "Not a fancy one like this—they're expensive—but you should have a way to reach me when I'm working." He walked to the door and pulled on his coat; she retrieved her own, buttoning it securely around the little girl, who had a pacifier in her mouth and seemed to be taking it all in quietly, thank God. The coat was ridiculously overlarge on her, he saw now, but he could also see why she'd chosen it: far easier than finding winter clothes for the baby. Well, hopefully Goodwill would have something.

"You don't have a phone in the house?" she asked, as they exited and he locked up.

"Nah," he said. "Most people my age don't, actually. Almost everyone has cell phones these days, and if you have one with GPS, like mine, emergency responders can even usually find you if you need to call 911. So a home phone is just one more bill to pay."

Slowly, she nodded. "It's very strange," she said, as they started walking. "I thought the weirdest part about coming back would be seeing you, but that's been pretty normal, as far as all this goes. I never considered how technology would have changed, or what new books might have been published, even though I really, really should have." She sighed. "I mean, we aren't _completely_ cut off, from the important things—I know about the World Trade Center, for example—but most things don't make that big of an impact. _He_ can sense more than I can, and he usually told me, but even then, not many things can really get his attention anymore."

"You wanna tell me about that? About… how it works, between here and… what did you call it?"

"The Underground," she said. "There used to be a lot of stories up here that… linked to people down there. How did he put it? 'Every story of a powerful immortal has its roots in my people,' or something like that."

"What, so like… vampires? Dracula?"

She gave him a strange look. "Maybe," she said. "Dracula, anyway; not Anne Rice. I never thought of that, and he never said. But if that's true, it's the least of their stories. I meant… I meant more like gods. You know, Zeus. Thor." She laughed. "Much more than _Dracula_. And on our side—Above—it's belief in their sort and their kingdoms that keeps the connection open. On their side—Below—there needs to be at least one of _them_, and there's only one, anymore. _Him_. Well. And me. Sort of. Mostly." She looked at him, one eyebrow raised. "Why was the first thing you thought of vampires?"

"Eh…" he trailed off, embarrassed. "Pop culture thing. Vampires are sort of… cool… now." He shook his head. "Anyway. So if he leaves… everything goes poof?"

"Well, not right away. I don't actually know how long he can stay away. He did for about a week, once, I know." She shrugged. "Transference—that's what he calls travel between realms—is really hard, too. He said it was easier, once, when more believed, when more Kingdoms remained. The Labyrinth is all there is, now."

They walked in silence, for a time; she looked sad, and he didn't want to disturb her. In another block, they came to the bakery he'd mentioned, and he motioned her inside.

"I don't know about you, but I could use a little breakfast."

* * *

She asked for a bagel with cream cheese, and went to get them a table. He ordered her bagel and a breakfast sandwich and another coffee for each of them—he'd drink hers if she didn't want it—and went to wait for them to call his name. When he got to the table with their food, he found Sarah looking around curiously.

"This place seems pretty established," she said. "Are they common, now? I mean, I remember Starbucks, but…."

"What? Oh, yeah. Health food is all the thing now. Calories on everything, natural ingredients, all that shit. I just like it 'cause the bread is good. Don't mind the coffee, either."

"More coffee?" She laughed. "You're going to jitter away."

"I got you some, too." He offered the cup, and she grinned. "And they have cream."

When she returned from doctoring her beverage, she looked more annoyed than anything. "I need some kind of baby carrier that isn't strapped to me," she said, sitting down again. The baby squirmed at the change in position, and made a noise of protest; Sarah patted her back soothingly. "There, there, love, it's not your fault." She reached for the bagel and the plastic knife. "Seriously, though, this was easiest when I had to transport her, but she's in the way all the time, it seems. I like a good snuggle but this is ridiculous."

"Is that something you can... make?" He lowered his voice on the last word, not wanting anyone to overhear even the slightest reference to her magic.

"Probably. But if we can find something…." She was obviously uncomfortable asking him to spend money.

"Alright," he said. "Listen, your money did pretty okay, and I have a good job. I can afford to get you a few things. But are you sure you'll need them?"

"Will I need them?" She blinked, confused. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Well, I mean…." Suddenly, he wasn't sure how to say it. "Will… what are the chances we'll see _Him_ anytime soon?" Fucking masculine pronoun. He didn't like talking about the other man—the _Goblin King_—as if he were God, even if he maybe once had been. He resolved to stick to "your partner" from here on out. Or maybe "that rat."

She took a deep breath, and let it out again, biting her lip. He couldn't quite name the expression on her face. Was it regret? Sadness? Fear? Hope? She looked into her coffee, swirling it gently. It was several moments before she spoke.

"I think I did a pretty good job hiding where I went, but he probably can feel my little girl, here, which will bring him, someday. But I've been Above for just over a week, now, and he hasn't come. That means either he isn't coming—" her voice broke, and she winced, like the thought brought physical pain, "or he doesn't know where I am yet. And what I did… I think we might have up to a year. Maybe two. Probably not more. And if—when—he does come… well, then we'll see." She sat back, her food forgotten. She looked defeated by the thought.

As far as Toby was concerned, that was their cue to get moving.

"C'mon," he said, stretching out his hand in an extravagantly courteous gesture. "Let us spend some money. I hear that is a common cure for a fair maiden's ills." For a moment, she stared at his hand, and he thought that maybe she blinked back tears. But then she shook herself, and smiled, and accepted his hand as assistance to rise.

"Thank you, Toby," she said, giving his hand a squeeze as she released it. "I'm so glad of one thing, no matter what happens next. I'm glad I got to meet you all grown up." She shrugged the coat on, buttoning it up as she moved to the door.

He took their plates to the trash can, thinking of her words. He felt… proud… and happy… and maybe something else that he couldn't quite identify, let alone try to name.

He wanted her to stay.

* * *

_A/N: Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_ _was published in June of 1997 in the UK, but the US publication was not until September 1998, so Sarah wasn't aware of it when she left._

_How many people remember the cell phones of 1998? Raise your hand if you once owned a phone like the Nokia 5120, which was released that year._

_On Updates: Remember how I was going to work ahead and keep up? In the last three weeks I've poked at the climax, but left the next chapter at about 80%. In spite of this, my goal is to have the next chapter ready by January 11, 2013. I hate to admit it, but it really helps the writing process to hear that you're all interested._


	4. Jealous Kind

**Chapter Four: Jealous Kind**

_1238 Days (April 4, 2000)_

"Toby!" Sarah bolted awake, jerking out of his arms and sitting up forcefully. Jareth, startled into wakefulness by her sudden motion, blinked at her owlishly in the dim moonlight. It had been a Long day, but he had been upstairs, Dreaming, very late; he had slept only an hour (and two minutes and twenty-one seconds), and only two remained of darkness. Excessive, perhaps, but he must take inspiration where it struck. But Sarah, now, was panting, beside him, with shock or fear, he could not say. He waved a hand, and the candles next to the bed blazed into life.

"What is it, dear one?" he asked, yawning. He sat up, and wrapped his arms around her waist, meaning to pull her down again, but she twisted away, turning to look at him. For a moment, it almost seemed that she looked past him, towards some place he could not see.

Jealousy flared. She had called another name while in _his_ arms, nevermind that they had been asleep, nevermind that it was her brother, and no mortal lover, who had this power to reach her. _Mine_. She had chosen him over her brother, in the end. He willed himself to calm; she needed him, now.

But though he tried to hide it, she seemed to sense his need for reassurance. She slid close, her hand on his thigh, and kissed him, briefly, then pulled back to meet his eyes. Conversation, then. He pressed his lips together against impatience, and waited.

"It was a dream, I think," she said finally, now unsure. "I don't know why I reacted so strongly."

He put his hand to her cheek, stroked her soothingly. "What did you dream, beloved?"

"Toby…" she trailed off. "I think—I think he wanted me. Wants me. Wished for me."

Could it be? He had not thought she would come into this power so soon, the power to hear those Above who wished to reach you, whose cries _you_ wished to know. But if there was one she was promised to hear, as once he had promised to hear her, it would be her brother. He stomped on jealousy again. If she was feeling Toby, that was a good sign; she was more like his people with every day that passed. Soon, now, the physical signs would start.

"If you can truly feel him, love, do not let it go. Focus." She closed her eyes. "What do you sense?"

"He misses me, I think," she said. "Or… he wants me… or someone like me." She pressed her hands to her head, then tilted it to one side, as though listening. "He's thinking, 'I wish I had someone to talk to about this.' About what?" Another pause, and then she started giggling. "Oh, poor Toby."

Her laughter, at least, was beautiful. He shook his head, fighting jealousy, fighting exhaustion. "And what plagues him?"

She laughed again. "I think… I think it's a girl. It's… a girl he doesn't like… but she likes him… he doesn't know how to tell her." She shook her head. "How to… be nice."

"Why would he wish to be kind to someone he dislikes?" Jareth himself had never held with such false pretense.

"Oh; not like that," she answered. "I mean... romantically. She's probably a perfectly nice girl, and he probably doesn't dislike her specifically, but either he is interested in someone else, or she's not pretty enough, or she's boring... it could be any number of things."

He was too tired to be interested, presently, in the child's courtship, or attempts at avoiding it. He could remember, long ago, women throwing themselves at him, when he had lived in Kiev. _Do not permit any woman to touch your heart_, his mother had told him. He had not; one was much the same as another to him: ephemeral, transient, their lives small and insignificant, their youth over in a blink. Still, they had provided him an education: he had taken many to his bed, learning from them the ways of pleasing a woman, that attentiveness that let a focused, intelligent man know just how to touch her, as though reading her mind. He had taken pleasure in them, as well, blessing the dual nature of his kind that required full maturity in magic to bring their men fertility. Then he had had no thought to children; now, he was only glad that he had not left behind halfbloods. They tended to struggle to place themselves in a world not quite made for them, longing always for a world they might never be able to reach; he had left no children to that cold fate.

His own inclination was, thus, if unattached, to learn from the girl and then discard her, but Sarah generally subscribed to human mores; that advice was unlikely to be welcome. But he could not simply ignore Sarah; that would hurt her. Instead, he asked, "What would you tell him, if he asked you?"

"Well, that depends," she answered. She leaned in to him, resting her head on his shoulder, one arm sliding around his waist, and he embraced her in return. _Mine, and every touch a gift_. His eyes closed, briefly, one second of sleep, then blinked open again as he forced himself to focus on what she was saying. "I'd ask him about the girl, about why he wasn't interested. If it was a good reason, I'd tell him to either be honest, or avoid her, depending how persistent she was. If it wasn't a good reason, I'd tell him to give her a chance. After all," she turned her head and kissed his neck, "I can't say I'm sorry where my second chance landed me." He kissed her temple, and she pressed a hand against his shoulder; taking the hint, he pulled her down again. She rested her head on his chest, her hand coming up to describe little swirls and patterns on his skin. He lowered the lights with a wave, and closed his eyes; he had almost fallen asleep when she spoke again.

"Does it ever stop?"

"Does what stop?"

"I can still hear him."

"He is still thinking of the girl?"

"Yeah."

"You may be able to reach him, as I reached you."

"I could?" She raised herself off his chest to look down at him, to meet his eyes, and he hated the hope shining there, and hated himself for hating it. _She chose me_.

"It is possible. Eventually, it is very probable. I do not know if you can, now, however." He pulled her back down, so that she would not see his face; he was too tired to maintain an indifferent façade.

She cuddled down without protest; his hands tightened, reflexively. "What do I do?"

"Do you remember the first time you were aware of me, after you left?"

"I remember every time," she answered, and he could feel her smile. "But the first time—you only spoke. Words I'd heard from you before."

"Such a pity," he drawled.

She laughed, and said, "I love you," and his heart jumped.

"My Sarah." She snuggled closer. She so rarely said it aloud; then again, neither did he. For twenty-one seconds they were simply silent, together. He curled his fingers into her hair, cradling her head, his eyes closed. He was so tired, and she so warm.

"So what do I do?"

Of course. The _brother_. "Remember something you said to him, once. Imagine whispering that in his ear."

"I told him I'd always be there for him," she said quietly, "the summer after…. The summer I was… back." The time she had spent Above, while he missed her. And she had said that? Had she known, even then? Or had she, then, been sure she would not return? Had it been merely a temporal promise?

Before he could think further on that time between—they still had not discussed it in detail, the pain too fresh—she gasped, then cried out in pain. Her fingers clenched into his skin and he held her tight, stroking, soothing.

"I think I scared him," she said, her eyes clenched tight. "Why did it hurt?"

"My apologies, love; the connection can be fragile when new."

"I lost him," she whispered, and then she was crying into his neck, shaking with sobs.

Automatically he held her, stroked her; he whispered to her, soothing words that he hardly registered. Had she cried like this, for him? He had felt her, but never listened, never answered. He would not have been strong enough to stay away.

And now she clung to him, and cried on him, and he was so, _so_ tired, and she loved her brother, and he had failed to warn her about the pain, and he did love her, so, so much, she was _his_, she came _back_, she chose _him_. She was _here_, in his arms, here to _stay_, _always, his_.

"Ssh, beloved," he whispered. "You will hear him again." She nodded, and clung tighter.

He could never tell her that he hoped she never would, that he had no desire to share her, that he anticipated her grief, when someday, the child passed, as all Men would. He could never tell her that he still feared she would hate him, when the day came.

_So, so tired. _But Sarah's sobs had quieted, and her breathing slowed, and her body relaxed, before he fell asleep.

* * *

He woke late; the sun was fully above the horizon. He was not truly rested—he had slept only four hours, two minutes, and forty-two seconds, and the night had been more than twelve—but he felt much better than he had when he had woken in the night. And, to his surprise, Sarah was still abed, nestled in his arms, her back to his chest.

He closed his eyes again and tugged her closer, curling his fingers under her side as he buried his nose in her hair; she smelled of clean mornings and fresh dew and citrus and vanilla, as much his own imagination as the soap she preferred. And though last night she had woken to cry another's name, the truth of the morning was that she was here, in his arms, the scent and softness of her drawing out contentment and lazy, late morning arousal to layer over that possessive instinct. Gently, the hand that had curled around her waist loosened to being caressing in long, slow sweeps, across her belly and down the tops of her thighs.

"So you are awake, then," she said, a hint of laughter in her voice. "I rather thought so." He heard a rustle, and she shifted in his arms as she reached to place something—a book, most likely—safely out of reach. The movement thrust her bottom firmly into the cradle of his hips, and he made no effort to restrain the satisfied noise that rose in his throat, his hand coming to rest at her hip. She turned over, then came close, tangling their legs and moving in for a gentle kiss.

"It has been day for hours now," he said when they parted. "Why did you remain?"

She shrugged, a little self-consciously. "I was busy. And I can read here as well as anywhere else." He looked to what she had been reading; not fiction or history, but rather a language primer; she had decided, recently, that she should learn as many as she could. He could understand: it was necessary to involve the mind, in this place. He had done the same, once upon a time.

"I cannot say that I mind." He dipped his head, gathering her close to taste the soft skin where her neck met her shoulder.

She leaned her cheek against his head, and he could sense the smile in the kiss she planted in his hair. But then she sighed, and he knew she had stayed for something more complex than the simple pleasure of resting in his arms while he slept.

"I miss him," she said quietly.

_The boy. No. Mine_. He could not help meeting her eyes; it took every effort to keep his face expressionless. The hand he had curled behind her back dropped, his fingers clawing into the mattress.

"Please don't look at me like that." She caught his lips with hers, and for a brief moment that distraction filled his mind, but all too soon, she was pulling away. "I don't regret being here. I can't." She brought her hand to his cheek, and he closed his eyes briefly, turning into her palm. She did not always see through him, so, but he had been alone too long, and he had never had someone in his life quite like her. "When you sent me back, I thought I would die, I missed you so much. It took everything in me to really consider what you'd said, to not go running right back to you. It's… I don't miss him like that. I haven't thought of him in a very long time. But I'll always care about him, you know?"

_I thought I would die__, I missed you so much_. That he understood. He had felt much the same.

But what of the boy? He was aware, still, of the family that had gone before him. The faces, the voices, that danced at the edge of memory, the people he had long ceased to actively remember because it hurt too much to miss them. Each loss alone was slight, but together the wound was deep, and scarred. Most he had never known well and many he had never liked, but it was better even to hate someone than to feel nothing, or to have no one even to hate.

Sarah was waiting for him.

"I am glad you can hear him, beloved." And he was, though more for her transformation than for that connection. "I only fear that in time you will miss him too much." And _that_ he had seen, seen his own kind pine away for want of mortals Above, seen them make foolish decisions under the weight of such emotion. Seen them leave their friends and doom their worlds because those desires could not be tamed.

Come so close, himself, to following them. _But she chose me, instead._

It was easy to ignore the past when there was no one there to question you, but Sarah brought everything back, pressing those old scars until they bled. Until he feared making new ones.

"What happened?" she asked, gently.

"A… friend of mine. Her name was Koliada." Wild hair, and eyes that reflected stars even in the dark. It had been so long since he had thought of her. He had consciously pushed her away.

"A friend?" She drew away from him, raising herself on one elbow. It had been a long time since he had seen her look so wary. She was quiet a full minute, searching his face, and he waited; impatience would only increase her suspicion. "You told me, the first time we were together, that there had never been anyone else who mattered."

He had meant it. None had ever mattered like her. Most had never mattered more than simple pleasure, but there were shades between that had not been elucidated in the passion of the moment that she referenced. _Soft beneath him and so close and tempting and desperate, he was desperate; please with all that is left of me let not all my dreams be denied. _

"No one else has been to me what you are." He spoke the words carefully. "Yes, we were lovers, occasionally, but she was also my teacher. There was never any expectation of permanence or monogamy."

"It sounds like she was important, though," she said, shortly.

He did his best to hide his delight at her jealousy, but could not prevent a small smile that widened slightly when her eyes narrowed further—perhaps she thought the smile was at the memory? _So much the better._ "She was my mentor; such relationships are commonly found by the young when they come Below. They became even more common as more of us faded, as the young became more precious. We could not stand that knowledge be lost. Koli and I found each other because I had an aptitude for her work; she is the one who taught me to manipulate Time."

"Is… is that all she taught you?"

"No," he answered simply, and leaned in to kiss up her throat, towards her ear. He let the magic in his body flow, there, stimulating the nerve endings where he touched to call up the sensation of gentle heat. She flinched, at first, but then relaxed into the familiar caresses, only to jump back with a yelp when he used his tongue to flick the sensation of ice against the pressure point behind her ear.

"Jareth!" The combination of arousal, amusement, and irritation in her tone and expression were so familiar that he relaxed, tired of teasing her. Jealousy was amusing and gratifying, but she must know her place, must know how important she was to him.

"It is not merely a work of pleasure, my dear. It is incredibly delicate magic, requiring exquisite control and precision. To make use of it in a moment of passion demonstrates magical maturity in the arena of control. For this reason, it is quite unusual for a pair in such a relationship _not_ to be lovers. It is expected. It is also expected that they will separate when the teaching is done. In the end, thus, while I did care for her, those feelings were not at all romantic, but rather somewhere between the fraternal and the filial."

He could feel her searching him for signs of deception, but he had no reason to hide now that the topic was open. "She and I never had _this_." He reached to cup her face, to bring her close, to feather kisses across her cheeks. To make her _see_, though he struggled to say it. "My Sarah." It was a whisper, and her eyes fluttered closed. He could feel the heat of her, the trembling edge that wanted to believe.

Finally, cautiously, she nodded, then leaned in, capturing his lips briefly in an intense kiss. For a moment, he hoped the discussion was done. But then she moved away, pulling the hand from her cheek and meeting his eyes again as she asked, "What happened to her?"

The question brought the memories back in a flood. His mind filled with faces he had not realized he remembered, even names so far lost he could not recall forgetting them.

"As perhaps you have ascertained, I spent very little time with my own people once I was brought Underground. A few hundred years in Perun's court, as he faded away, and then another few hundred here, while Dareios, the last Goblin King, still ruled. In all that time, Koli was the only one I was ever close to other than my mother.

"When I was bound to the Labyrinth, as Dareios' heir, our friendship ended. She stayed at the World Tree, in Zaleta's diminished court. I saw her only once after, mere years after I became the Goblin King, when she came to say goodbye. It was the only time she ever visited the Labyrinth." He remembered the pity in her eyes, the way she saw the Labyrinth as a trap, though he had tried to show her its beauty.

"Goodbye?" Sarah's voice was soft and patient.

He nodded. "When we were close, she was always drawn to the Above, drawn to the people who still called out to her. In the end, she did not fade away; she returned Above, determined that Men should not forget her." Sarah's hands were still, her gaze calm, a veil drawn over the emotions that might hide in their depths. "Eventually, she died, Above, but she was successful, and her songs are still sung. But if her work might have aided the World Tree we will never know, for it was gone before she finished. Sometimes I fear that her departing may instead have hastened that end, for Zaleta was weak and losing Koli weakened her further. And as my nearest remaining neighbor, that loss... was very painful to bear. I do not recall more than three hundred of the thousand days that followed." He stopped, hoping that that might be enough, and looked up to see that her eyes were now brimming with tears.

He drew her close to kiss them away, the gesture serving also as a shield against his own remembered loneliness. She was here, warm, and _his_. That empty time was ended at last. Sometimes it still felt like a dream. He ended with a kiss to her lips, hot and harsh with leashed passion and possession.

"I think I understand," she said, when he let her go. "I won't let him pull me away, Jareth. I won't let anyone pull me away. You know I love you."

"And you know," he answered, "that I love you." _Let her see; do not make me say it. Sarah, I need you this much. Sarah, you have this power over me._

She kissed him, again, and it felt like an answered prayer.

* * *

_A/N: The Slavic goddess Koliada, (also spelled Koljada or Kolyada), is associated with the sky and sunrise, and also with Time and the Winter Solstice, the power of the light over the dark (since the Solstice is when the days start getting longer again). Her celebration persists today as part of the Christmas rituals of these countries; they sing carols called Kolyadka which are supposed to entreat or predict health and good fortune for a home in the New Year. The English song "Carol of the Bells" is based on the melody of one of these songs, though the words are quite different in Ukranian and there it is associated with New Year rather than Christmas._

_Also, since I've had someone ask: don't give yourself a headache trying to track how many days pass Underground for every day Above. It's somewhere between two and three days, and varies with the length of the day, and it isn't really important. I've given the Aboveground date so that you don't have to try to figure it out._

_And many thanks again to **etcetera nine**, who read at least three different versions of this chapter and was incredibly helpful to me in getting it right. _

_On Updates: The next chapter is completely ready and will be posted on January 16, 2013. After that, we go mostly into the unknown. I do have material for after that prepared, most of it climax, but I don't know exactly how it will all come together yet. And this week, in addition to working on this chapter, I wrote 2000 words of a completely different story that may or may not ever go anywhere. It's funny, though... I have guilt about working on other stories, but jotting down those 2000 words cleared the muse and once I'd done it this chapter was much easier to get out._


	5. I Could Get Used to You

**Chapter Five: I Could Get Used to You**

_January 3, 2011, 6:31 AM_

It was rare that Toby _wanted_ to go to work. His job was a logical way to pay the bills, not a vocation; that was one reason the idea of living on Sarah's money for a year had been so tempting. He might have done it, too, if the economy wasn't such shit, but there would be time later, once things were booming again.

But today, he wanted to go to work, because, counting his commute, work meant at least nine hours away from the baby.

He had been woken up, at least three times, that night, by _fucking crying_. When did babies start to sleep through the night? Could he ever hope for a full night's sleep? If they didn't solve this, maybe she wasn't staying after all.

_Fucking. Crying. _It was quiet, now, thank God. He rolled over and put his head under the covers, determined to let the snooze go a bit.

A few minutes later, he smelled coffee. Well, that was one benefit of having a roommate, anyway. He didn't have to remember to set up a programmable coffee machine. He'd gotten a new machine for his birthday, with a timer, but he'd given up on setting it after waking up to nothing but hot water three days in a row.

He dressed, and wandered out to the living room. The kid was sleeping, thank God.

"Hey!" Sarah greeted him cheerfully. "Coffee's on; did you want some eggs?"

He blinked. It was too early in the morning for this shit. Usually he stared at the wall, and then checked his email, and then got a coffee on the way to work if he hadn't had the brainpower to start the machine.

"Did you even sleep?" he managed, finally.

"Of course," she answered, with a smile. "I just don't need nearly as much as you do. One of the benefits."

"Oh." _Brilliant answer, Toby. Truly, you're a fucking genius._ She did have a nice smile. "Benefits?" He plopped down in a chair at the kitchen table.

"Of…" she made a vague gesture, one that took in her eyes. She still looked human, but… oh. "So, eggs?"

"What? Um. Sure?"

"How do you take them? Scrambled when you were ten, I know, but—"

"Scrambled is good."

"Scrambled eggs, coming right up!"

Just then, the coffee stopped dripping, and before he could even get up, she was there, pouring a mug for him and fetching sugar and milk. He spooned in three teaspoons of sugar and ignored the milk, then took as big a gulp as he dared with it still so hot. He could feel the warmth burning down his throat, and he felt more awake already. He closed his eyes and took another sip, but opened them when she placed a plate on the table in front of him. Scrambled eggs, and—wait—_toast? _

"Sarah, my toaster was—" on the fritz, about ready to explode, a fire hazard, frequently burning bread black….

"I know. I fixed it."

"Fixed it?"

"Yeah." She flicked her finger out, and a little ball, like a marble, appeared at the tip. She closed her hand and it disappeared, looking almost like it had dissolved into her finger. "It's easier, today, now that I don't have to 'port every few hours." Oh.

He took a bite of egg; it was delicious. He could definitely get used to this.

He smiled at her, and he was just about to say so, to say thank you, when he was interrupted by _fucking crying_ from the other room. He put his hands to his ears, trying to drown out the sound.

"Sorry," she said, and darted out of the room. He could hear her cooing, that noise women make at babies. After a moment he heard the bathroom door close.

Fucking crying, and baby shit. And magic glass balls that fixed his toaster. What was he getting himself into?

He managed the eggs, and was pouring himself another cup of coffee when she came back into the kitchen, now holding the child. Somehow, one-handed, she managed to open jars and fix what she needed, and soon the kid was sucking on a bottle, her eyes on the ceiling.

"Sorry, I should've—" he broke off. Should've helped. Should've what, filled the bottle? Measured? Offered to hold her? Babies were a mystery.

"Don't worry; I can handle it. I don't want you to feel obligated; I know this is a lot to take on."

"If you say so." Coffee and breakfast had done wonders for his brain. He checked the time; 7:15, about time to get going. He grabbed his wallet and pulled out some money. "Here. For lunch. There isn't much in the house. And you've got my phone number, right? And the spare key?"

"I'll be fine." She smiled at him again.

"And help yourself to anything else… books, dvds, the computer…."

"Dvds?" She raised an eyebrow.

He laughed. "Movies on disc. You know, like a CD. Do you not remember those?" Come to think of it, he'd been in his teens before his parents bought a set.

"Oh!" She smiled. "They were really, really new. But I think I can figure it out. I mean, CD player on the outside, VCR on the inside, right?" He nodded; he'd never thought of it that way. "And you have books. And this little girl should keep me entertained!" She smiled at the child, and the girl made a little _oooh_ sound, around the bottle. Far better than the crying.

"Great, okay—I'll be home around 5:30, then, probably."

"We'll be here."

* * *

It was odd, he reflected, as he walked to the train, to think that he'd be coming home to someone. He never had, really. He and Erin had dated for almost two years, but they hadn't lived together; it hadn't been serious enough, even though his mother seemed to think it should've been. If they'd been serious, maybe she wouldn't have given him up when she moved away. There hadn't even been a suggestion of long distance, or of him moving too. That had hurt, at the time—mostly because it pretty much sucked to feel unwanted—but it wasn't like he was ready to really settle down, anyway. Still, someone like Sarah… she put him at ease with her every look, and he couldn't deny that he _liked_ the idea of her being there when he got home, especially if the baby was quiet.

The baby. Maybe today Sarah would come up with a name. But would he ever get used to the _noise_? Would a bigger apartment help?

Maybe she could magic something.

What _could_ she do, with magic? She didn't seem to be very powerful, at least not compared to how she talked about the fucking _Goblin King_, but she'd made the bassinet, and somehow fixed his toaster, and dressed herself, too. He'd asked about that last thing, when they were picking out clothes for her yesterday, and she'd gotten a rather distant look on her face and changed the subject. It was a look he was already learning to recognize: it meant, "I miss the fucking Goblin King."

As soon as he'd figured that out, he found that he wanted to make sure she never looked like that ever again. She had him and the kid and a whole new world to explore, _and_, as she'd told him, she was basically immortal and had her own magic; there really was no reason to go all sappy over the asshole she'd run away from. She should be looking forward, not back.

But the magic. What were its limits? He'd tried to ask, but too many of his ideas were formed from modern fantasy, especially Harry Potter. What she called "Transportation" seemed to be similar to apparition, but that was where the parallels stopped. Everything else she'd tried to explain, over meals or in broken bits of conversation during their shopping, had been way the hell outside his experience; she said "Form" and "Magic" and "Summon" like words that should mean a hell of a lot more than they did in the dictionary. Sometimes, though, it almost sounded like science; she spoke of perception and fundamental elements and even atoms. Science had never really been his strong point.

And, he'd been wrong about her and time travel.

That was the most ridiculously amazing thing about this, he'd decided, once he had the chance to think. She hadn't just popped up Above—_Transferred_ up Above—she had gone back two years and _then_ popped Up. The kid's birthday was, technically, sometime in September 2012. She was about four months old, and also, sort of, negative twenty-one. Not even a twinkle in her mother's eye. Had the girl even met the father yet? _Here's a hint, honey: birth control_. But then again, without the kid, Sarah wouldn't have come back to him, not yet. And he didn't want to give her up.

Even if he did like the idea of Sarah just coming to him, without the kid. He would have gone to the park again next Christmas, right? And after? And someday…? Right? She wouldn't just… give up on him… even if she'd never argued, or whatever, with the fucking Goblin King?

He hadn't had the courage to ask.

They'd bought perishables at Target—a few more bottles, diapers, wipes, socks, and a small bin to hold it all. At the Goodwill, they'd found clothing for her and a few things for the child, a stroller/carrier contraption that he wasn't entirely sure about but which had certainly pleased Sarah, and a used Pack'n'Play, where the kid could sleep once she was a little bigger. They'd grabbed dinner, and then found a taxi back to his apartment; they had too much to carry. Once back home, he'd hoped to talk to her more, but the child had been demanding, and then he'd seen that she was swaying on her feet, exhausted, still, from her travels. He couldn't ask more of her, then; they would talk tonight.

The automated voice announced his stop, and he jumped for the door as it opened, joining the throng pushing out. He'd been so wrapped up, he'd nearly missed it.

He closed his eyes, briefly, and there were her green eyes, smiling at him. It was going to be a long day.

* * *

He hadn't been able to get her off his mind, all day long. At least now he didn't need to pretend to care about anything else, anymore. As he walked back to the train, Toby pulled his phone and called Sarah, hoping she'd remembered to keep the phone accessible.

It rang for a long time, and finally clicked over to the automated voicemail. Damn. But as he started to speak, another call came through. Good; she knew how to call him back.

"Sarah?"

"Hey, sorry. I was changing Ruth." Her voice sounded a little shaky, but it might have been the connection.

"Ruth? You named her?"

"Yeah." She paused, and he could hear her breathe. It did sound like something was wrong—like she'd been crying.

"Are you okay?"

"Well enough," she answered, but he knew it wasn't the whole story. "Nothing you can—nevermind." She cut herself off, but he didn't think he'd imagined the hint of a sob in her voice. _Fucking Goblin King_. She was probably making _that face_ again.

"If you say so." He could stand here arguing her into telling him, or he could go home and _make_ her tell him. "Anyway, I was going to pick up dinner. How do you feel about Chinese?"

* * *

Making her tell him was not as simple as just asking. In fact, he really had no idea how to bring it up. He found her in the living room, when he opened the door, the child drowsing on her chest, smiling at the book she held open in one hand—_Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. _He should've known she'd go for that first, after yesterday; she must have spent a lot of time reading while he'd been gone. Her face was clear; there was no sign of the tears he'd thought he heard. Had he imagined it?

He greeted her, and invited her to the kitchen. She entered without the child, but with the book, and he laughed. He'd been much the same, the first time.

She met his eyes, and shook her head, then, very deliberately, closed the book and put it down on the table. As he went for plates, she went for glasses, and poured for them both.

They sat down, and she asked about his day, but he didn't have much to say about it—"I went to work, I crunched numbers, I came home." _The same thing I do every day_.

"I see you're enjoying the books," he said, casting about for a more interesting topic.

"I am," she said, with a wry smile. "Even though they're wrong about practically everything."

"Wrong?" That hadn't been the reaction he had been expecting.

"Oh, Magic. Goblins." She smiled. "It's quite unique, if nothing like Below—the way things really are." She shrugged. "_He_ would just poke holes in it—I can see logical errors already, ways the plot could be stronger—but at this point I'm just enjoying the story, and the world. It's very inventive."

"The—_He_—" _Fuck, I wasn't going to call him that_. "Your... partner… would do what?" _Damn, don't like partner either, don't remind her._

She laughed, and he realized that this was the first time he'd heard her speak of the man without pain. "Oh, he delights in pointing out the errors in construction of stories that don't pass muster—which is most stories that don't have Underground origins. You should have heard him about _Peter and the Wolf_." The wistful smile was back, but it was obvious that the memory was a happy one.

"What's wrong with _Peter and the Wolf_?" he asked, a little affronted. He'd always loved that story, had wanted to be clever, just like Peter. And she was mad at the Goblin King, wasn't she? Why was she smiling?

"He didn't think the wolf was smart enough," she said, her smile widening. "He said the story should be more complicated, and then it would be better."

"What gives him the right to judge?" Toby felt absurdly insulted, like the _fucking Goblin King_ had just talked down to the whole of Mankind.

Sarah just rolled her eyes. "That's who he _is_, Toby. The Master of Dreams. The King of Fairy Tale. Those aren't official titles, like—well, you know which—but they are true." She shrugged again. "Still, I think sometimes he _is_ too quick to dismiss human endeavor. His people did so much for us, and _he_ does so much for us… it's… it's like he doesn't see the trees for the forest." She sighed, leaning forward on her hands. "I mean, you said yourself that you read more after those books, right?"

He nodded. "Actually, they were kind of known for it. All these kids who _hated_ reading who suddenly couldn't get enough. I wasn't one of those—I liked reading where I enjoyed the subject—but I read more, after. I looked up the classics—you know, _Lord of the Rings_, that sort of thing. And there are a lot of copycats, too—lots of other magical young adult novels written in the past ten or so years."

"See?" Sarah smiled, and this time he felt like she was smiling for _him_. "He has trouble thinking of it that way—thinking beyond that which is of Below and that which is not. I understand why—it's enough of a burden to sense the connections he does—but it limits him in understanding how those connections can be built." She shrugged again. "Also, I think it's maybe an occupational hazard—he can't really read a story just for the pleasure of it. He's _always_ analyzing."

That sounded tiring, but Toby didn't say anything. He wanted to dislike the man, dammit. He pushed the thought away.

"Finished?" he asked, instead, reaching for Sarah's empty plate.

"Yeah," she said, and then she looked up, as though she'd heard something in the other room. "Baby's awake." When he had put the plates away and joined her in the living room, he found her sitting on the couch, the baby on her knees, making faces to try to get the baby to respond. The baby's mouth opened, but no sound emerged.

"She's awake? I didn't hear her." Which was just plain weird, considering how often she'd woken him up in the past two days.

"Oh—that's the other thing I did today, magically. I set up a spell so that only I can hear her. Sort of a… magical baby monitor." He watched as she tickled the girl's stomach, and the baby made a face, but no laughter went along with it.

"You couldn't just make it so I won't hear her crying?" Five minutes ago he'd been sure he never wanted to hear a baby fuss again, but not hearing her at all was just… bizarre.

She shook her head. "I don't know how. Figuring this out was hard enough. But I know we woke you up last night… I don't want her to be a burden to you, Toby."

Oh. "You didn't have to do that," he answered. He didn't want to be woken up all the time, true, but… "It's not that I don't appreciate what you're trying to do for me, but I'd rather be part of her life… if… if that's okay. I mean, at least to hear her. What if she needed someone and you couldn't come?" Sarah was looking at him oddly, her head tilted to one side. In spite of her human appearance, he felt, suddenly, the force of her otherworldliness; she seemed about to offer him an important choice, and he readied himself to answer her.

Then she shook her head, and the moment faded. "It isn't that I don't appreciate what you're trying to do for me…" she said, under her breath, then she looked up at him again. "Not yet," she said, louder.

"Not yet, what?"

She paused. "You said yesterday that I could stay last night, but… you haven't said beyond that."

It was true, he realized, now that she said it. He'd been acting like he'd assumed she was staying—she must have noticed—but they hadn't actually discussed it. Quickly, he outlined his two-week plan, already feeling that it was probably a bit superfluous. When he finished, she looked at him thoughtfully.

"It's a good plan," she said. "We do need to get to know each other. And two weeks… well, hopefully I'll have some idea of where else I can go, if it doesn't work out."

"Great!" he said, waving off her concerns. She was staying. In her lap, the baby squirmed, then frowned; Sarah looked down at her and laughed, then stroked her cheek, as she'd done that first day. Right. Baby. "So… about the kid. Is the… spell… hard to do? I mean, maybe if, just when I'm asleep?"

She was silent, a moment. "That would be a good compromise," she allowed. "It's a little more work, but it's worth it, if you want it; and I might be able to figure out another way, later, especially if this works out." She closed her eyes, briefly, then snapped her fingers next to the child's throat. Sound clicked on like a radio, and he could hear that she was making little grunting noises as she squirmed. Little fussy noises that looked to be pushing towards a full-on yell. "Of course, she picks this moment to stop being cheerful," Sarah said, ruefully. "Better see if she's hungry."

That was all the kid seemed to do—eat, cry, sleep, and shit. Well, he'd been too dead on his feet to shower that morning, so he'd take care of that now.

When he emerged, refreshed, she was grabbing changing supplies, and he could smell the reason. _Maybe there's a spell for that_. He stood in the living room as she took the child away, feeling strangely awkward in his own home.

Normally, in the evening, he would turn on the television, or open his laptop, or usually both. Or fire up the Xbox, but Sarah really didn't seem like the kind of person who'd enjoy shooters, so that was out. He'd never had a girl just… around… in his home, before. With Erin it had been romantic: wine and chocolate, cuddling during movies, submitting to her favorite shows, and sex on pretty much every horizontal surface in the place. Anyone he'd had over since had skipped the romance and gone straight to the sex.

Sex. Sarah. _Right, okay. She's hot. She's also your sister. Get a grip, Toby._

In an effort to distract himself from thoughts that really wouldn't do any good, he looked around the room, picking out the signs that indicated her presence. You could learn a lot about a person by the way they lived.

Despite her efforts to be tidy, she had imprinted herself, already, on this space: the pillows and blanket were neatly folded at one end of the couch, the baby stuff was piled in a corner, and a few books—_Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone_, which she must have read earlier, in addition to _Chamber of Secrets_—had been pulled off the shelf and piled on the end table his mother had _insisted_ on bringing him last time she came to town. Previously, he'd just used a folding TV table. Next to them, under the lamp, there was a brass bookend, shaped like a little, gnarled dwarf. That had definitely not been there that morning.

He picked it up, turning it over in his hands. The bookend was something else his mother had brought him with the table, something from his parents' home. He'd found it in the attic when he was ten, and brought it downstairs. Mom didn't like it, probably because it had been with the stuff that Linda had left behind. It had been in his bedroom, faithfully propping up his old _Goosebumps_ collection, when he moved out to go to college. Last summer Mom had cleaned up his room; apparently, "keeping your room just like you left it, so you'll always have a home to come back to," didn't quite extend to the decorations and objects you had liked and she hadn't. She had donated the books, and she'd told him to "donate or keep" the bookend, as long as it was out of her house. He'd put it on the bottom shelf of his bookshelf, and forgotten about it.

Why had Sarah retrieved it?

She entered the room, then, the child snuggled into her shoulder, quiet and content. She glanced at him, and he saw her eyes flick down to his hands; she straightened her shoulders, her face set, and continued over to the corner with the bassinet. What was wrong with the bookend?

She leaned over the baby, and he heard a soft _snap_ of her fingers as she reapplied whatever magic would keep the child quiet. She approached the couch, and sat down, picking up her book very deliberately. She didn't look at him. Her face was carefully blank.

So this was what had been bothering her earlier.

"Sarah?" he asked, and she looked up at him. "Is something wrong?"

She met his eyes, then glanced to the side, and then, finally, at her hands, clasped across the book, which she had folded closed, her place marked with a finger in the page. For a moment, he thought she wouldn't answer; he sat next to her, and covered her hands with his. He did his best not to fidget. This look was beyond "I miss the Goblin King."

"Today was the first time I've been able to slow down long enough to think," she said, finally. "Think, not act. To realize how much I miss… _all_ of it. The bookend… it looks like a dear friend of mine. It was mine, before. I found it… just before you called."

"I'm sorry, Sarah, I can—"

She shook her head. "No, it's fine. I got it out because I wanted to remember. It—I just—_He_ isn't the only one I miss." One hand loosened itself from his grasp; she wiped at her eyes, delicately, drawing away tears that had not fallen. When she looked up, her face had cleared.

"I'm sorry," she said, and her voice sounded far more normal. "I am really glad to be here, with you, Toby." She squeezed his hand.

He wanted to hold her, to soothe her, to let her cry on his shoulder. To kiss her temple and stroke her arm. To drive those shadows out of her eyes. He knew he could make her happy, if she'd only give him the chance.

She pulled her hand out of his, and returned to her book; he could tell from her reactions that she had reached the climax. He opened his laptop and tried to distract himself, but he kept coming back to the tears Sarah hadn't quite shed.

Well, it was only the second day they had spent together. She would see, soon enough, that she was better off here, away from everything she had run from. Away from the fucking Goblin King.

* * *

_A/N: DVD format was released in the US in 1997, and outstripped VHS to become the dominant form of home video distribution in 2003. _

_Ruth is a Hebrew name that means "friend;" in the scriptures, the character Ruth is a Moabite who follows her mother-in-law to Bethlehem and marries Boaz, King David's great-grandfather. The name also has origins in English; there, it means "compassion."_

_And, since I hadn't taken the time to do this just yet, thanks for the reviews, everyone! I've replied to all that I could within the review system, but I wanted to say it overall. I'd love to hear what you're thinking, at this point - particularly, what do you think of the structure? Does it make sense? Do you find it easy to follow? Do you wish one particular side of things would move faster? Slower? Anything that you think should have already been explained, but hasn't? Lay it on me! I'm happy to hear criticism at any time, and if something really isn't working, I want to know._

_The next update needs work, but my goal is to have it by January 25, 2013._


	6. Masters of the Unsaid Word

**Chapter Six: Masters of the Unsaid Word**

_2253 Days (September 12, 2001)_

"Close your eyes. The magic is all around you, in the earth beneath your feet, in the air you breathe, in the blood in your veins. It is a sense of energy, ready to be gathered and released. The essence of the world, the essence of your spirit, and you can control and direct it. The air becomes heavy with awareness. The earth becomes denser, more solid. Your body strengthens with possibility. Can you feel it?" Jareth stood behind her, one arm wrapped around her waist, the other stretched forward, following her outstretched right arm. He cupped the back of her hand in his palm, his fingers guiding hers as they stretched, her palm flat.

"I don't know." She sounded angry, annoyed; not at all the proper mindset. He pulled her closer, leaning in to kiss her temple, the corner of her jaw, behind her ear.

"Relax, my dear," he whispered, as she tilted her head to one side, allowing him access to her neck. "You must let go, relax your mind and body, allow yourself to simply sense. It is early, yet." He continued his ministrations, kissing slowly down the side of her neck, his fingers caressing her hip.

"I can't think at all when you're doing that," she said, her voice caught between arousal and annoyance.

"Good," he answered, "do not try." He had brought her to the Field of Doors for this experiment; it was a beautiful meadow, and special to them, and it breathed with Magic. He laced the fingers of his right hand with hers, and pulled her arm in, holding her tightly as he continued his kisses. She wriggled against him, and he growled, momentarily distracted; true seduction had not been his intent, but that was difficult to remember when she pressed into him as she was doing now; when she smelled so good; when little flashes of every time she had pressed back into him, so, flashed across his mind in a moment. But they had been trying only two minutes and twenty-two seconds; he knew she was capable of more, if only she could let go and let her senses free. But as long as she was angry and impatient, they would get nowhere.

"Jareth! What happened to _focus_."

"You will not be able to focus properly until you _relax_." He let his knees bend, drawing her down with him into the grass. He arranged her on his lap, and kissed her, briefly, but she pulled away.

"I don't want that kind of _relax_, Jareth," she said, sharply. "I need to learn this."

Need to learn this? "Why?"

She pulled out of his arms and settled on the grass; he let her go. "I just… I just do. Don't you get it?"

He did not. Certainly he wished her to learn, for she desired it, but there was no need to rush. He knew she was driven to find ways to help him work, but this was one aspect that could not be rushed. The magic would come in its own time. He was thankful for the simple confidence that it would come at all.

"Sarah, please. You have forever; there is no need to drive yourself so hard." Recently she had taken it upon herself to clean up the library, by hand, though he had offered assistance; many days he had found her there, dusty and disheveled, paging through some volume of Underground or Aboveground lore. Now that her magic had begun to manifest, it was becoming an obsession that was nearly frightening.

"Forever." She rolled over, away from him, propping her head on her hands and staring out across the meadow, towards the distant wall that marked its edge. Something told him not to touch her, that this was a moment for loneliness. Instead, he arranged himself beside her, leaning on one elbow, staying carefully out of her line of sight. He did not touch her, but if she leaned towards him, only slightly, she would be in his arms.

_I will be there for you when the world falls down_. One human dream at a time was difficult to touch, but when so many of those he could reach dreamt the same dream, it was far easier to understand, and to know what had happened in the world Above to cause such pain, and he knew she felt it far more strongly; she had known that world. Her grief was her own, not the simple echo of others' pain. He found he no longer cared if she _desired_ comfort; he wanted to touch her hair, stroke her back. _My Sarah. Not theirs, anymore._ He reached forward, thinking to lay a hand on her shoulder; it seemed suddenly very important that she look at him. She had been looking away for exactly sixty seconds, now. But as he moved, she turned to him, resting her forehead on his chest, and he brought his arm around her gently, a comfort rather than a demand.

"I—I could feel them," she said, quietly. He held still, waiting. "All those people, begging for help, from _anyone_, and I can't even go to them! I have enough to _sense_ but no power to _do_. I need to learn to _do_."

"Sarah," he said, controlling his voice so that he could speak to her gently. "You could not have saved them." She had chosen him, once, over all Mankind; could she not do so again? But no: just as it had been with the boy, this was natural, that she would love them, and her love for them had allowed her to return to him, as well; he must remember that. For her own sake, and thus for his, she must give some of her heart to others, or he would find himself, one day, with nothing. Caring not at all was just as dangerous as caring too much.

"I might have saved a few." Her voice was very small.

"Sarah," he coaxed, "look at me." He brought his hand around to hold her chin as she raised it, her eyes glittering with tears, and he kissed her slowly, gentle and chaste. "I have known more tragedy than you can imagine. The pain of the falling of each Kingdom of the Underground is shared between all those who remain, and I have felt many in my life, each worse than the last as we diminished. And I can feel that suffering Above, just as you have, except that my link is no longer tied to my own nation; it spreads across the world." She leaned into him, again, accepting his comfort, now.

"How do you live with it?"

"I do because I must."

He would not tell her that one nation or another meant little to him, that the reasons men killed each other could not weigh with him, that he could not afford himself the luxury of preferring one man to another beyond their value to the Underground, with the exception, perhaps, of one or two. Loving her had nearly destroyed the Underground; those hundreds of days of waiting for her to use her wish, to renew or condemn him, had driven him closer to the edge than all his years of loneliness. He could not afford so to claim a people. Those of his kind who had done so had lived with their people, and then had died with them. Koliada had been the last, not the first.

_He stands in his darkened bedchamber, watching his Sarah sleep, her skin pale against the dark sheets, a small smile lingering on her lips. He longs to kiss that smile, to wake her, to love her again, but if he does, he will lose the will to do what must be done. He can think back, can count every moment that he has held her, can call to mind perfectly, exactly, her every movement, her every word, her every gift, her every surrender. His Sarah who called him, who challenged him, who chose him. His Sarah, who refused to simply submit to him, but who, rather, had actively claimed him, so irrevocably that he would always be hers._

_His Sarah, who was human, and bound by Time, and who must understand what he was asking of her. His Sarah who, when she understood, would be wisest to turn away. Almost he had not brought her here, tonight; almost he had sent her home the previous evening. He had spent the entire day preparing himself to do so, only to find that he could not, that he needed some small moment more, something to remember. And so he had brought her to his bed, where none other had come since he had taken the Kingdom, which he had promised himself, once, would not be shared with anyone. It will be torture, he knows, to sleep here again, while her scent lingers—as he will ensure it always will—but to have nothing of her would be worse, when he sent her home, when she stayed Above, as he trusts she will be wise enough to do._

_And even should he fall, her world will go on long enough that no harm would come to her. At least she will be safe, and happy, and loved, until the day she dies._

"Sarah," he said, again, pulling himself back to the present. _Forty-seven seconds she had let him hold her, while he remembered. Forty-eight seconds, now, of gentle wind and cool grass and Sarah under his arm_. "Beloved." He kissed her temple, inhaling the scent of her hair. "You are ready to learn more magic, more direct manipulation. It is true. But you must know, now, that you cannot save every person. As long as you have that goal, as long as you cannot simply accept the magic that will come to you, you will fight yourself, and you will not succeed. You must relax. You must want it for its own sake."

He pressed her gently back, so that she lay in the grass, looking up at him, and Summoned magic to his hand, forming one of the crystals she was so familiar with. He danced it across his fingers, enjoying the attention it required, the balance and dexterity, then held it in front of her eyes, as he had done once, so long ago. _Do you want it?_

She smiled at him, fondly, and he knew that she remembered, too, and that this was no longer a point of contention between them. They had been over every step of her journey, now, and had argued and laughed and eventually, agreed. Old injuries, now healed properly, plagued them no longer. She had taught him that.

"I want it," she said, and reached out.

He Released the magic into the air, and smiled at the outraged look on her face. "Then take it for yourself, my Sarah. Relax." He kissed her brow, and her eyes closed; he remembered, briefly, how she always looked asleep in bed, so relaxed, so carefree.

"Now empty your mind, and listen."

* * *

By the end of the afternoon, she succeeded in Summoning a small amount of magic, and fashioning it into a crystal the size of her thumbnail. It was not truly necessary to work through a form—he, himself, frequently conjured straight from magic—but learning to bring the magic forward was the first lesson, and the crystals were a solid, recognizable way to achieve that goal. She offered it to him, as he had done earlier, and he laughed, at first, until, watching him, she tilted her head in that thoughtful way that he both loved and feared and asked him, "What are your dreams, Jareth?"

"You have seen my Dreams," he answered, deliberately misinterpreting her. And then, hoping to distract, he added, "And you know I dreamed you would be mine." He cupped her cheek, then slid his hand back into her hair, bringing her mouth to his. He kissed her for a full minute, but when she pulled back, there was none of the daze of desire he had intended to invoke in her eyes. Instead, she watched him with worry, and a piercing clarity.

"I can't be all you want, Jareth. What about your dreams that haven't been granted?"

_Sarah, here in this meadow, chasing a child with her dark hair and his blue eyes. She calls the child to her, and comes to his side. He kisses her, and the child, and they disappear._

_Sarah in an evening gown, on his arm at the Opera, Above. They hold hands, occasionally closing their eyes to share the visions of the past._

_Sarah standing in the spot where once there was a park where she practiced lines, marveling at the changes Mankind has wrought over the centuries._

"You are the most important," he answered; she stared at him, flatly, waiting for him to go on. She was too insightful for her own good. "It does no good to dwell on that which cannot be. Please, do not ask again." She looked down, and took his hand.

This time, when he kissed her, she let him press her back into the soft grass, and when he touched her, she responded passionately, as ever. But after, holding her gently as the sun descended past the walls of the Labyrinth, he looked down and saw that her eyes were far away.

* * *

She was so still that he thought she slept, wrapped in a conjured blanket where they lay on the hill, but as the last of the sunlight faded, she spoke.

"Tell me about the stars," she said softly. "I meant to ask so long ago... but it's so easy to forget." She shifted, so that she was looking up at him. "You told me once that you're always aware of Time Above... do you ever lose track of time?"

"I always know," he answered, "but there have been long periods of time when I found it did not matter." He tangled a hand in her hair, focusing on the feel of those individual strands between his fingers.

"When a Kingdom…" she trailed off.

"Yes, but not only then."

"When I..."

"No." Every moment of her absence was etched into his memory, a clear and painful reminder of all that he had given up.

"Then—"

"Average days are the hardest."

She was silent, then, a while, her hand still against his chest, and he wondered at the goal of these questions. He had warned her, in his letter, and every other time she had asked, of the pains and pleasures of this life, and still she had chosen it, had chosen him. His arms came around her more firmly, as though holding her body in place would hold her mind as well.

Seeking distraction, he returned his attention to the heavens. There was no moon, tonight, and he traced the familiar shapes of the prominent constellations, awaiting the deeper darkness that would bring forth their edges, and those other patterns less known. Though the first to his mind were the names he had learned as a child, the simple names of the folk of Rus', he knew the patterns of every culture as well as he knew the history of his people. In many ways, they were one and the same.

"Tell me about the stars," she said again, and he was grateful that she had abandoned that other, unhelpful train of thought.

"What do you wish to know?" he asked.

"You told me, once, that the stars here were the same as the stars Above, but I can't see it. There are too many, and they're too bright."

He kissed the top of her head, laughing affectionately. "Look again, my dear. All the stars you know are there. It is only that there are many other stars, as well." When she was silent, he tried a different tack. "What is one constellation that you would always know, Above?"

"The Big Dipper, I guess," she answered. "Or... I think it's called Ursa Major?"

"Ursa Major comprises more stars than those, but yes. It is there." He pointed. "The stars you know are the body, and the tail, but look below: you see the legs, the head?" Seven bright points of light, and many only slightly dimmer, more even than could be seen Above.

"I see..." she paused, then, "wow, it really does look like a bear!" She frowned. "But... why a bear? It really couldn't be anything else."

"Blame Zeus; it was his story."

"What?"

And so he told her the tale of Callisto, a nymph and lover of Zeus, who had been turned into a bear, along with her son Arcas, immortalized as Ursa Minor. She was quiet, a minute, when he finished.

"That doesn't make sense," she said finally.

"Why not?"

She rose up on one elbow and turned to look at him fully, the movement throwing her face into shadow. "You do know what stars are, right?"

"I know what your scientists say," he answered.

"So Zeus can't have put them there, not unless you really _are_ gods, and you say you're not!"

"Stellar theory was never my strength; I cannot tell you exactly how it happens. But I know that it does: major figures of my people are represented there, in the sky, in some form, large or small."

"So scientists are just wrong? That doesn't make sense, Jareth."

"That was not my intended meaning. I do not believe they are wrong; the universe is vast and amazing, and I do believe that they are as correct as the know how to be. They merely do not know to take magic into account."

That argument silenced her.

"Furthermore," he went on, "it is not always as simple as one constellation relating to one story. That same collection of stars, which we discussed, was claimed as well by Tezcatlipoca, who ruled the Aztecs, several centuries after Zeus had departed."

"What about you?" she asked.

He laughed. "My own collection is very small; I did not place it."

"Who did?"

"I do not know."

"Show me."

He did, pointing out the landmarks in larger constellations, and demonstrating the technique that brought Magic into play to bring the cluster into focus amid the brighter stars that surrounded it. He had not thought of that little symbol in so long; it was merely another proof of his insignificance, compared to history: he would never wield the power of his elders. The days of glory had passed before his birth; they would not recur. On hopeful days he could be proud of his place, proud of his accomplishments, proud that he remained, that he continued, that Magic still touched the world Above. And there had been more hopeful days, since Sarah: days when he could let time pass because he was content.

"It's beautiful," she said, and he smiled, and shifted to kiss her as she turned to him. She was here, and his, and this place had dulled her earlier pain. Would that that pain could go completely; would that she could find in him what he found in her. Once he had believed she did; now he was less sure.

"Are you happy, Sarah?" The question was whispered on the edge of their kiss, out before he could think better of it. She pulled back to look at him, her hand against his cheek, then brought her lips to his again, kissing him hard, her mouth nearly punishing against his.

"I love you," she said, when she ended it.

"But are you happy?" he pressed, now fearing her answer.

She dropped her head, resting against his shoulder, and sighed. _No. But she will not say it._

"You told me how it would be," she said quietly. "You warned me, and I thought I understood. I didn't." She cut herself off, and he hated the tears that threatened, roughening her voice as she sought control.

"Sarah..." _I will never let you go._

He heard her swallow, felt the flutter of her eyelashes against his bare shoulder as she blinked, and when she looked up again her eyes were clear.

"It's harder than I expected," she said, seriously, "but I still can't see making another decision."

She pulled his head down to hers, her kisses desperate but loving, and he let himself relax into her, pushing aside his fears to take comfort in her presence. _It is forever; I will never let you go._

* * *

_A/N: The chapter title references a quote by Winston Churchill: "We are masters of the unsaid words, but slaves of those we let slip out."_

_The Owl Cluster, also known as the ET Cluster or NGC 457, is an open star cluster found in the constellation Cassiopeia. It was discovered by William Herschel in 1787. Unfortunately, Above, it can't be seen with the naked eye. I first encountered it at a star party this past September and knew I had to find a use for it in this story. It's the first stellar object that I've seen in a telescope and immediately thought, "Yep, that looks just like what it's named for." There are links to a few pictures in my profile._

_Tezcatlipoca was an Aztec/Toltec god who, according to the mythology, became their primary god after corrupting the god Quetzalcóatl. His prominence is associated with the rise of human sacrifice among the Aztec._

_All other stellar objects or constellations mentioned here should hopefully be familiar to the average reader._

_And: I'm late, I know. I'm sorry. A combination of life being busy, computer issues, and my muse deserting me or otherwise insisting that of course writing 500 words of the very last chapter is a great idea when you're all waiting for this one. But! The next chapter is ready and will be posted on February 1, 2013._


	7. Fairy Godmother

**Chapter Seven: Fairy Godmother**

_January 5, 2011, 6:02 PM_

"Hey, Mom."

"Toby!" she exclaimed, and he held the phone slightly away from his ear. _This_ was why he never called her. "Toby, honey, I'm so glad you called, I need to talk to you about the weekend."

"Yeah, listen, Mom, so do I, you see, the thing is—"

"Your father promised me he'd get done early on Friday, but you know how he is, so I expect we won't get there until maybe eight, is a late dinner okay? Nine?"

"Sure, whatever, I'll just have a snack when I get home, but—"

"I'll call and get reservations at that—what was the place we ate last time?"

"Legal Sea Foods, Mom, but—"

"Now don't start with me about 'let's go to some small place on the water,' you know you can't trust them—"

"Legal's fine, Mom, I like Legal, but—"

"And then we'll just pop by your place, I have some things for you that I don't want to take to a hotel or leave in the car, you should really get a bigger place, Toby, and a guest room—"

"Mom! Would you please stop talking for a second?" Fed up with her interruptions, he'd gotten a little louder than he'd intended.

"Tobias Robert! There is no need to take that tone with me! I can hear you perfectly well."

He rolled his eyes, thankful that she'd never learned to use a webcam. Her discovery of Facebook had been bad enough. He thought longingly of his buddy David's mother, who flat-out refused to friend her son, claiming that he "didn't need her prying into his personal life." That would be bliss.

At least yelling had got her to shut up.

"Mom. I need to tell you something, so please listen."

"Tell me something? What is it? Did you pass your exam? Did you meet a girl? Are you going to move to California to be with Erin? Is she coming back? Is—"

"Mom! If you don't stop guessing, I'll never be able to tell you!"

"Well, honey, there's no need to be rude! What is it?"

_I met this amazing girl, and she's my sister. I'm living with Linda Williams' daughter. I'm pretty sure the world has gone completely insane_. But all he said was, "I have a guest staying with me."

"A guest? Who? Someone I know?"

"Um… she used to live in your town, but I don't think you'd remember her. She—"

"She? A girl? You do have a girl? And she's living with you?"

"It's not like that, Mom. She's a friend. She needed help."

"What, she needed a couch? What sort of trouble is she in?"

Best to jump in with both feet. "She has a kid… a baby… and she's not with the baby's father." They had planned this, last night, after dinner, after Ruth was asleep, when he'd told her about their visit. Sarah had told him not to lie, although he wasn't quite sure why. Lying and saying she was a young widow, a friend from college, maybe a soldier's wife, would make this so much easier, but she insisted. She'd given him a list of things to say, actually. "Has a kid," nevermind that it's not hers. "Not with the father," nevermind that she'd never met him. "Hopes to reconcile with her ex." That last was a stretch, she'd said, although she hadn't elaborated, really. After all, as she said, she was still "his."

It was positively Jesuitical. Also, he was mostly trying to just not think about the Goblin King. Sarah had left him, after all, and he hadn't seen "I miss the fucking Goblin King" in her face yesterday, either. Maybe he wouldn't ever show up. Maybe he was too angry. Or maybe he just didn't love her. No matter what, she was in the real world, now, with him, and the Goblin King was far away. He might even stay that way, if he knew what was good for him.

Also, he had apparently stunned his mother into momentary silence.

"You… have a guest… with a kid? A single mother? Toby, I can't say I approve of this, what will—"

"It's not my kid, it's not a friend's kid, I met her through a friend at my bank." That one was really a stretch. Fortunately, Mom was making all the correct assumptions, just like Sarah had predicted.

"Toby, but you—"

"I know, I know, loose women, taking advantage, Mom, it's not like that. She's nice. She just needs help. It's January. She's only staying a few weeks."

"And you expect us to take her to dinner? I'm sure she can't afford a babysitter. Don't tell me you're paying for one."

"What? No. No. Mom, she's great with the kid and she doesn't expect me to help unless there's a real emergency—like excessive blood, not like 'oh I just need to step out for a moment.' We'll go to dinner with the three of us, as planned. I just wanted you to know, because she'll be here after."

"Oh. Well. You know I still don't like it and your father won't like it either, but you're a grown-up boy now." _Thanks, Mom, you really couldn't have said that any more condescendingly. _"You'll just have to make your own decisions. Don't come to us looking for help for her, though."

"I wouldn't dream of it. I'll see you Friday, okay? Say hi to Dad for me."

He stabbed his thumb viciously into the "end call" button; the one thing he missed about flip phones was that satisfying _snap_ when you ended a call that hadn't gone well. Although actually, that had probably gone about as well as he could have hoped. He knew she wouldn't approve of him "shacking up" with some girl he just met. Fucking puritanical sensibilities. As though he couldn't just be friends with a girl, either. His own birthday was seven months after his parents' anniversary; she hadn't been a saint either, so she could get off her fucking high horse.

Entering the living room, he found Sarah looking out into the night. The baby was asleep, thankfully.

"You heard all that?" he asked, quietly.

"My ears are better than yours, now," she answered, turning to face him. "I can't really say I expected any other response, but I hoped…. But it doesn't matter, now." She looked down.

He couldn't resist; he reached out and hugged her, one-armed, giving her an affectionate squeeze. "I know you want to see Dad, but he'll be here, after. Do you think he'll notice?"

"Notice?"

"You? He does remember being married to your mom."

She pursed her lips. "I—he won't—no. It won't be a problem." She looked down again. "They'll never know. Not unless I tell them, and even then, they might not believe. That's how it works—you _know_, but you still don't _remember_, nor will you. So I'll just be… your friend. Like we talked about."

He nodded. "Okay."

"Can you do that?"

"Yeah, I can."

"Good." She smiled. "And thanks." She stepped away from him, walking towards the kitchen. "Now, Ruthie's asleep; are you hungry?"

"Did you cook?" He had some frozen meals, and a lot of take-out menus. Yesterday they'd had leftover Chinese. Cooking was another skill he wanted to learn but hadn't quite made time for.

She laughed. "Well, if you count 'heating up Stouffers' as cooking, but yeah, there's lasagna." She shrugged. "I was an okay cook before—not great, but I wouldn't poison you—but I'm… rather out of practice." She opened the oven and removed the covered pan.

"So you didn't cook, Underground?"

"Nope. There was a covered dish in my room that generated food appropriate to the time of day. And you don't need to eat as much, there, either." She brought the dish to the table, and set it on a towel; he noticed then that she had already set the table. Noticing the direction of his gaze, she looked down, embarrassed.

"You…?" he asked, not even sure exactly what he was going to say.

"I thought it would be nice," she said. "You've done so much for me already, and I wanted to… to show you what I hope this will be like, at least for now."

"This?"

"If we stay beyond the next few weeks… like we talked about Monday."

Oh. "So what were you thinking?"

"Well… I still exist, legally, sort of, or at least I should. The problem is that no one remembers me; even if I'm in a computer, human eyes won't read my name, that kind of thing. _He_ explained it in detail, once, when I asked. But in the meantime, I don't have ID or anything, so I can't really go get a job. Not to mention, without my degree and without any work history, no one's going to give me a job that pays anything decent. Certainly not enough to put Ruthie in daycare. Right?"

He nodded, slowly. "So…?"

"So I have a few ideas, if we plan as though—as though _He_ isn't coming—" her voice caught, and he wanted to hug her, or maybe punch the Goblin King, or probably both. Someday he'd get her to let him go. Someday.

"Anyway," she had herself back under control, "for right now, I can't really work, but I have a lot of time, and some magic, and I can make your life easier. I'll do all the cooking and cleaning around here, shopping, laundry if you want, whatever. At the same time, I'll work on making myself exist again, legally, with magic. It'll probably always be awkward, but I might be able to nudge things along to the point where I can get documentation. Then, eventually, I'll have the option of going back to work. I was going to be a psychologist, did I tell you that?"

"A psychologist? Why?"

She shook her head. "_Him_. And you. And everything. Myths and fairy tales. I didn't believe the Underground was real—I thought I made it up. And I wanted to figure out why." She blinked. "Then it all _was_ real. That was actually a little confusing. But the _why_ was still important—why those stories resonate with us." She looked at him, her jaw captured in one hand, and suddenly he saw the professional, long denied; almost a stereotype of your sitcom analyst.

"What?"

"Can I ask… Toby, did you ever have an imaginary friend?"

"An imaginary friend?"

"Surely you've heard of that."

"Umm…." He took a huge bite of lasagna to give himself time to think. Truth be told, he _had_ had one imaginary… companion… but it was a little embarrassing, actually. Not very manly. He didn't want Sarah to think he was wimpy, or gay.

When he finally swallowed, he looked up. She was just watching him, smug amusement in every line of her face. She raised one eyebrow, and he almost _felt_ her question. Apparently stuffing his face had been an inadequate ruse.

"I, um." He looked down. "You know how, in the stories, if the story has a poor heroine, she often gets a fairy godmother who can do things for her? Make it better? But if it's a hero, and he's poor, most of the time it's only his own cleverness that lets him succeed. But then there are stories where the girl has to be clever too, like Rumpelstiltskin. There aren't any stories where the hero gets a fairy godmother, though, at least, none of the big ones, the ones I know. And I always thought that wasn't _fair_." Fuck, now he was blushing. Very manly, that. "I mean, not that I didn't think I could be clever or whatever, but it should go both ways, you know? So… that was what I wanted. A fairy godmother."

He rested his head in his hands, looking down. He couldn't look at her. She would be laughing at him. He had never told _anyone_ that, _ever_.

The silence stretched.

She probably thought he was an idiot.

The he heard her move, felt her hand on his back. Her hair fell in front of his face, and he felt her breath at his ear.

"You know I'll always be there for you, right?" she whispered.

_You know I'll always be there for you, right?_ How many times had he heard that, through his teens? He'd been too old for imaginary fairy godmothers, then, he told himself. Of course he didn't hear any such thing.

But if he'd never heard any such thing, why did it sound like her voice? Why did she know exactly what to say?

When he finally managed to meet her eyes, marked, glowing, slanted, alien-but-familiar eyes—where had the glamor gone?—his mouth dried up; words failed him. He opened his mouth, and then closed it again, and then, finally, croaked out, "I—you—you mean you—"

"You don't remember, Toby, but I made you that promise before I went Underground."

"I—you—you mean I didn't—I—I really—"

"Would you call me a fairy godmother?" She smiled. _More like a fairytale princess_. "But someone… a bit supernatural… looking out for you? Yes. I could never do more than that whisper, not even when you wished for me, but I'm glad you heard me. I never stopped loving you, Toby." She looked down. "I always wondered why you never called again, after that first Christmas. I guess I know, now."

"Sarah, I…." Toby felt the absurd need to apologize for something that he had done—or, more properly, _hadn't_ done—in the future, which was to her the past. He hadn't done it—_wouldn't do it?—_for the perfectly understandable reason that she had been here, with him, but it had still hurt her.

"No." She shook her head. "We—people in general—have enough to apologize for without creating new opportunities by apologizing for the future, or attempting to figure out how to apologize for potential future consequences following time travel. You'll only drive yourself crazy, if you try. I am glad to know, though. And I think…." She broke off, and walked back around to her own side of the table. He missed her warmth, her closeness.

"I think," she started again, and he looked up and met her eyes, startled to see that they sparkled with tears, though she was smiling. "I think some part of you—subconsciously—remembered me. You missed me."

"Sarah, I…" he started, but broke off at the sound of a whimper from the other room, a sound that he had already learned was about five seconds from turning into a full-throated wail.

She turned from him, the moment broken. "I should…."

"Go," he said, quickly. "I'll clean up." She shot him a grateful smile, and a moment later he heard the child's cries fade.

He stood, and rinsed the plates; his old dishwasher couldn't handle leftovers.

He didn't even know what he'd been about to say, not exactly. There was something complicated, here, something about her beautiful eyes and her engaging smile and the way her breath felt on his ear. Something about the way she lit up the room with her happiness, the way she delighted in the ways the world had changed, in all the things that he'd previously taken for granted.

Something about knowing that she'd always loved him, and that in some way, he'd always loved her, too. Something that made him want to dance for joy, or even better, grab her and swing her in circles and listen to that beautiful, musical laugh, see the light in her smiling eyes, hold her close and feel her arms around him. Something in the way she'd hardly left his mind for a moment, ever since the night she'd first knocked on his door.

That wasn't… was that… normal?

Of course he wanted to feel close to her. She was his sister, after all, and he had twenty-five years to make up for. Twenty-five years of birthdays, of Christmases, of snowball fights and late-night movies and all the other things siblings were supposed to do together. Twenty-five years of a big sister who could have been the one he turned to when his mother was too wrapped up in his father to pay more attention to her son.

Twenty-five years that had been stolen by the fucking _Goblin King_. Of course he wanted to make up for lost time.

He wrapped tinfoil over the leftover lasagna and shoved it in the fridge; when he turned around, Sarah was at the sink, pouring out water to mix formula for the baby. She looked up at him and smiled that brilliant smile, and nothing else mattered. They'd find a way to make it work. His parents' objections meant nothing. When she looked at him like that, he had everything he wanted, and he wasn't going to let anyone take it away.

He followed her back into the living room, and sat down next to her on the couch, peeking over her shoulder at the child eating so contentedly. She looked sort of cute, there, and happy, and she was looking out at him with big, curious eyes. Was this what people liked about babies?

Ruth. Ruthie. That's what Sarah had chosen to call her. One tiny foot peeked out of the blankets; he reached out, hesitantly, and touched her tiny big toe. Humans sure did start out small. He shifted closer, leaning in to Sarah, and she looked up at him with another smile. He realized, suddenly, how close their faces were. Her hair smelled faintly of vanilla.

"She's so little," he said, voicing the thoughts he'd been entertaining, and trying to distract himself from the press of her thigh against his, the swell of her breasts beneath her shirt.

"They generally are, at this age," she answered, teasingly.

"I never—I mean—"

"Not used to babies?"

"I've never even held one." Mom and Dad were both only children; no cousins. Most of his friends weren't married yet.

"Do you want to try?"

"Um… okay." He did, because it would please her, and because it was ridiculous to be terrified of such a little person. "Do I need to… um… something about her head?"

Sarah laughed. "She can support her own head, you don't need to worry about that. Here." She turned to face him, and carefully reached out, placing the child in his arms. She whined a little as the motion disturbed her feeding, but calmed immediately as soon as she was steady again. She was warm, and so small. She was still looking at him, and sucking with quiet determination at the bottle.

She wasn't so very frightening, after all.

"Hello, little one," he said softly, looking into her eyes. She blinked, and he smiled at her.

At his smile, her whole face changed. Her eyes crinkled up and her lips parted in a wide, gummy grin. The bottle fell from her mouth, but she didn't seem to notice or care. He stole a glance at Sarah; she was smiling too, looking on proudly.

"I think she likes you," she said. "Do you want me to take her back?"

A tiny person was looking at him like he was the best thing in the world. Sarah was looking at him like he was a dream come true.

"I'm okay." He smiled at Ruthie again, and she made a little burbling noise.

"Alright… see if you can get her to finish, then. And let me know if you get tired of her." She handed him the bottle, and walked over to the corner where they had stashed Ruth's bassinet and other items, and began to tidy up.

He held the baby while she finished eating, and when she was done, Sarah showed him how to burp her, too, holding the baby to his shoulder, leaning against him as she demonstrated. It felt good to have her there, so close. It felt like she was his. Sarah was here, and happy, and Ruthie was quiet and content; dared he hope that yesterday's shadows were already forgotten? All he knew was that he could spend many days and nights like this, with Sarah, with the child. He felt like he had everything he'd never known he wanted.

* * *

_A/N: Thanks, as always, for all your lovely comments. _

_I did a little experiment with this fic, and with writing ahead. When I wrote "As Easy," I wrote almost none of it ahead of time - the only thing I had finished far in advance of posting was Jareth's letter. I had hoped that writing more ahead with this story would give me time to continue to write ahead, but instead, I've found myself lacking inspiration, resting on "I know I have next week's update" instead of thinking about the week following. Conversely, knowing you're all waiting on me seems to make the words flow. So until we get back to pre-written material (the end), updates will be posted as they are finished._

_One more thing: I have debated talking about this, because I don't want to spoil things (so if you're completely anti-spoiler, stop now!), but I don't want to put people off, either. What is going on with Toby is a very real phenomenon called genetic sexual attraction, which happens not infrequently between close family who meet as adults. This is_ still _a Jareth and Sarah story. What Toby is dealing with is important to his character, but it is not something that will be pursued physically. Sarah would never go for it even if I was comfortable writing that._


	8. Bittersweet

**Chapter Eight: Bittersweet  
**

_4217 Days (September 4, 2003)_

Jareth had been feeling it for days: that itch, at the edge of his perception, over and on top of the timesense, equally distracting, equally irritating, equally impossible to ignore. Someone, someone _new_, somewhere, was reading the_ book._

There were many stories, Above, of goblins or fairies or evil men who took children; there were even more of child sacrifice, though those were rarely believed. Over the centuries, many had been tied to the Labyrinth; many had wished away children without ever reading that particular tale. Anyone who believed the story stood out among a crowd, little sparks against a black mass of Humanity. He could ignore them, as easily as one ignored a sky full of stars; they were there when needed, and not otherwise.

This was not so with the book. Because it was so close to the truth, because once it had been exactly the truth, someone who read and believed _the book _blazed like a bonfire on a moonless night, the stars themselves washed out in its radiance.

The knowledge came slowly, as the reader committed to the material. The first day, he knew she was young, but not too young; perhaps the age Sarah had been when she had called him. The perfect age, in many ways: not too old to believe, but not too young to fully understand the story. Dareios, his predecessor, would have found her to be ripe for seduction.

By the second day, he knew she was beautiful, as well, with flowing, red-blond hair, expressive hazel eyes, a smile that lit a room, and a woman's figure, despite her age. Sarah had been lovely, in a girlish way only beginning to show adult promise; this one's promise was already being realized. Nor was she a complete innocent, as Sarah had been. While she had not yet given herself completely, she had tasted and offered pleasure with more than one young man. Ripe, and easy; she would be no shrinking violet.

By the third day, he knew her name was Lisa, and she was American, and that while she had no children—either her own, or those thrust into her care—she had completely embraced the romance of the story, the fantasy of the magical King who wished to save her from her dreary life. _But what no one knew was that the King of the Goblins had fallen in love with the girl. _He could damn the day those words were ever written; Sarah would still have been his.

She had quieted, somewhat, by the end of the third day; perhaps she was asleep. And though she blazed, still, in a corner of his consciousness, the magic had ceased to push new knowledge to him; he could think, again, his mind nearly his own once more.

He took the longer route through the Castle to his tower, over and around the Stairs, changing himself to fit them with the ease of long practice. As a distraction, it proved sadly insufficient; fortunately, a more thorough distraction was likely to be close at hand. He had avoided Sarah, these three days, unwilling to be in company while constantly distracted, and he had missed her, more than he had thought he could in so short a time. Three Short days, yet he ached for her presence, the balm of her love a shield against the cheap desire of a girl who meant nothing.

Yes, they needed him; and yes, he needed these people, this contact, in order to be of use to them, but the mental invasion was still unpleasant. He still resented that his mind was not completely his own. Sarah had been the only person it had not been torture to share with; he had savored her, each time she called, but she had been unusual. She was already beloved.

Sarah's door was open, as he had anticipated, but her sitting room was empty. If she was not in the Labyrinth—and he knew that she was not—she was usually to be found at her desk at this time of day, or, occasionally, sitting at the window. Still… perhaps…. Quietly, he stepped to the bedroom door.

Sarah lay atop her bed, a book open against the headboard; an open notebook and another book lay abandoned next to her. Her hair was damp, and she was completely nude.

The mere _mortal _in his mind diminished rapidly in importance. He drank her in, creamy skin and sweet curves and toes that point just so, one foot raised from the bed as though in invitation.

Wonder, and joy. _Always. _She was comfortable enough here, in his Castle, in his world, to rest, so, with the doors open in invitation, even requesting his presence. No armor, between them, no barrier; her obvious contentment was as intoxicating as her nudity._ Mine. _This was exactly what he needed.

He watched her for two full minutes, as she read, as she shifted on the bed, the muscles in her thighs and buttocks flexing gently. Watching carefully, he saw that only one hand was visible; the other was bent beneath her body. He smiled; he was certain he knew exactly where that hand was. Stepping quietly, he advanced into the room. He had intended to surprise her, but he had not taken two steps before she turned to him with a welcoming smile.

"Jareth!" She sat up, turning to face, him, and reached out a hand in greeting. Here, and comfortable, and _his_, sweet breasts, dusky nipples, even and perfect. One dark curl fell over her shoulder, chocolate against pale white.

He closed the distance between them quickly, taking her outstretched hand; when he bent to kiss her, she leaned back, drawing him down. He loved the way she kissed, the way she led with her tongue, like she was hungry for him. He joined her on the bed, leaning over her; she arched up, her breasts brushing his chest through his shirt. She wound one hand into the fabric of his collar, pulling him closer; these days he favored such shirts as much because she liked to hold them as because they suited him. And if her touch did not completely eliminate the nagging pull of the girl Above, it was still wonderful, still what he wanted. In her hands he could turn away, the bonfire diminishing in importance, if not in intensity.

He let her bring him closer as they kissed again, hovering just above her, between her thighs, as her legs twined around his, trapping him. Her hips shifted, seeking him; he resisted, teasing her, delighting in her frustrated moan.

"I missed you," she said, breaking their kiss. He hummed, a noncommittal reply, more interested in his reintroduction to the taste of her skin as he kissed his way down her jawline. He finished the row of kisses with a kiss behind her ear, and she lifted her hips again, wantonly. He pulled back, denying her again, but her angry "Jareth!" trailed off into a sigh far more worthy of his name when he latched onto her earlobe. Laughing, he gave her what she wanted, lowering his hips to hers. She made a satisfied noise and wriggled a bit, stimulating herself against him; while he had not been particularly aroused when he entered the room, he was now. _Mine. She chose me._

"I missed you, as well," he told her, and kissed her gently, briefly.

"Where did you go?" He thought she might be somewhat annoyed, from her tone, but she was also pulling at his clothing, her hands sliding up his back. They had been apart before, but never more than a day; still, he was not sorry for her lustful response, her obvious desire. He had come seeking the balm of her company, but he was quite happy to unite company and touch.

"In a hurry, my dear?" He laughed, again, letting her pull his shirt over his head. "If this is the welcome I receive when I must be gone a few days, perhaps I should find an excuse to leave more often."

She ran her hands up his back, and then around his chest, before tangling one in his hair and pulling him down for another kiss. He dismissed the remainder of his clothing, and she murmured her appreciation as she ran her other hand down his stomach, reaching to fondle him. She stroked, gentle but firm, her fingers so perfect, so right.

"I'd rather you didn't," she answered, a little breathy, tilting her head to let him kiss along her throat. "You also caught me at a good time." She squeezed, again, and he hissed against her pulse, his kiss changing to a bite; she made a delicious _oh! _noise, her eyes fluttering closed.

"Hmm, I noticed," he answered, nibbling down to her collarbone. "Should I be upset that you were starting without me?" He pulled away as she stroked again, and he captured her freed hand, bringing it up to pin behind her head.

"Well, I didn't know when you'd be ba—aah!" Her admonishment cut off as he pinched her nipple, twisting lightly; she arched into his touch, her soft flesh filling his palm. This was the joy of a lover well-known; he could play her like an instrument, sense her moods and read her reactions far better than he could have with any woman he might have had only once or twice. This would be the four thousand, two hundred, and thirty-fourth time they made love; they had surpassed any of his previous human lovers within the first week, and had exceeded his time with Koliada somewhere around the count of three hundred. And still, she never failed to delight him.

"I apologize; I could not give you word," he answered, looking into her face as his hand continued its attention to her breast. She shivered, but opened her eyes again to look up at him in unspoken question. "I did not know myself." He bent his head again, kissing down her chest and around the soft underside of her breast, knowing how his breath on her nipple would torment her as he passed it by. Every little sound she made whispered _I belong to you_; he would never tire of having her in his power.

"Where did you go?" she asked, breathily. Instead of answering, he gave in to her body's plea, licking her nipple and then pulling it into his mouth, while his hand quested south, skimming her hips, the tops of her thighs. "Ohgod, _Jareth_…." For a moment, she gave in to sensation, and he smirked, feeling quite satisfied that he had distracted her. She was the one who had started this little game and he was not ready for it to end so soon, not when she was so ready and willing, not when he needed her solace and her company and—just—_her_.

But whether she felt his smirk or simply refocused, a moment later her moans turned to a quiet laugh, and he looked up to meet her eyes, amused and fond and desiring.

"You're distracting me on purpose," she said, with a touch of reproof.

He sighed, licking once more at her breast before lifting himself over her so that they were eye to eye—and, incidentally, hip to hip. He saw her breath catch as he came close, as he touched her; he could be inside her in one motion, and he knew she read the desire in his eyes, the fraying edges of his leashed passion. _Mine_. Her eyes mirrored the same desire, behind her questions.

"Sarah," he said, meeting her eyes, one eyebrow raised imperiously, "Do not defy me." With the aid of the hand on her hip, he closed the distance between their bodies, keeping the stern expression on his face with an effort as he sank into her. It did take effort: she was wonderfully warm and welcoming, sweet solace and hot fiery lust and loving comfort.

Her eyes had fluttered closed at his movement, but she opened them almost immediately, a low chuckle in her throat. The contractions of her stomach made her pulse deliciously around him, and his smirk widened, his only concession to the glory of the sensation. And when Sarah's eyes opened, she matched his wicked grin.

"No snake this time, Jareth?" She paused, then leaned up to nip at his lip. "No rope?" She pushed, then, up and to the side, and he let her roll them, enjoying the view as she straddled him, the curve of her breasts, her flat stomach, the way his body disappeared into hers.

He loved her in all moods, loved to please her, loved the way they pleased each other, but this was a rare one, all the more to be treasured. Not wantonly tempting, though tempting she was, but wanton and in control... _mostly _in control. He twitched, inside her, intentionally, and she let out a hissing breath, her head tilting back, eyes closing again. Her long hair tickled the inside of his thighs, tingling. He twitched again when she inhaled, and she tightened around him, letting the breath out on a moan as she began to move.

She took her pleasure gracefully, slowly, long smooth strokes up and down, eyes closed, head still tilted back. He brought his hands to her thighs, fingers tracing random patterns, tightening and caressing, and after a moment she leaned down for a kiss, moving faster now as he thrust up to meet her.

Drowning in heat, drowning in pleasure, drowning in love. Only fire he needed, only fire he wanted. Think not of the girl Above, of the work coming, of the endless struggle against the dark. Only his Sarah, her movement, her scent, her touch. How had he lived so long, without her?

* * *

"Mmmmm." Sarah let herself down, sprawling across his chest, the aftershocks of her release still gently caressing him. He ran his hands lightly up and down her back, allowing her to recover a little; they would resume soon, perhaps another fifteen seconds. Her body would tell him. She kissed his collarbone, then looked up at him, smiling brightly. "So, where were you?"

For a moment he was stunned, but then he laughed, rolling them to bring her beneath him, and kissed her soundly. "You cannot be so cruel, my Sarah." He pressed closer, and she inhaled sharply, twisting against the increased pressure.

"I can," she challenged, even as her body responded. She tried to draw back, but he held her in place.

"You _shall_ not be so cruel," he corrected, increasing his pace as their eyes met.

"No," she agreed, and wrapped her legs around his waist.

* * *

Three days away seemed far too long, now that they were reunited. He planted tiny kisses along her hairline as she ran her hands up his back, along his shoulders. _My haven_. He cuddled down beside her again, holding her close.

"Will you tell me now?" she asked, after a moment.

She could not understand; there was no possible basis for comparison. Her mind was her own, private, quiet, except for brief moments when her brother reached out; and even then, he was no stranger. And yet he must tell her; this reader was the first since Sarah had returned, but it would happen again.

He outlined, as quickly as possible, the connection between himself and the Kingdom and the _book._ He did his best to keep it impersonal, clinical; unless and until, someday, she could feel something like this, she had no need to know. She listened, quietly, her face out of sight against his shoulder. The hands caressing his back had stilled as he spoke, but her arm around him still held him close. In his mind, the bonfire that was Lisa leapt and sparked; the wretched girl was _dreaming_ of him.

Sarah was quiet, when he finished speaking, so long that he wondered if she might have fallen asleep. Then, she pulled him closer, pressing into his neck, and he felt a hint of dampness against his skin. "Sarah?"

"I'm sorry, I'm being silly." She raised her head to meet his eyes, brushing away the tears that gathered at the corners.

"Will you tell me what concerns you? I assure you I find her presence an imposition; I have no interest in her."

"You thought I'd be jealous?"

"Are you not?"

"I…" she trailed off. "Not the way you're thinking. Could you go to her, if you wished to?" He nodded. "And you have not. I trust you. Why would you think I would be jealous?"

_Because I am. Because I would be. Because you should want me like that. Because I need you more than you need me._

"I do not see why else this would bother you."

"You don't?" She waved her hand in exasperation, rolling off the bed and walking towards her balcony, scooping a dressing gown from the floor as she went. Pale pink silk shifted to a dull black as she pulled it on, and he smiled at this manifestation of her power even as he worried for the mood indicated by her color choice.

"You said you were not jealous in the way that I thought you were. You were, then, jealous for another reason?" He followed her from the bed, Summoning his own loose robe from his room upstairs.

"You are too astute." She turned to look out across the Labyrinth, and he waited.

"I'm jealous of you," she said finally, softly, "because you have that connection."

"You have no such bonds? No bonfire, no pinprick? I thought certainly, after the tragedy of a few years ago—you did not retain any of those connections?" Why had he never asked her this? He had thought she would ask if she found herself in difficulty—her connections should not be as strong as his, except perhaps her brother, which she knew already—but now he realized that she never had. He had taken her silence for complaisance, not thinking that it came instead from ignorance.

"When I can sense Toby, he feels like a magnet. He… draws my attention. But there is nothing like those pinpricks, those stars, that you describe."

"You have a very personal relationship with your brother. You have tried, again, to reach him, have you not?"

"I… when he isn't thinking of me, he isn't there." Her quiet admission startled him, and he watched her carefully. He had been certain she was, or could be, in constant contact; to find she was not was surprising, but it would most likely come in time. She turned, then, to bury her face in his chest, and spoke again, so softly that he could hardly make out the words: "Perhaps I shouldn't have come."

He had wrapped his arms around her instinctively when she approached; at these words his grip loosened, his hands falling to rest on her hips. Why would she say such a thing? Did she…? But no, he had seen no indication that she regretted _him_. Her welcome today had been everything he had dreamed it might be. Still, the quiet flicker of doubt could not be completely extinguished, and he could not suppress a quiet question.

"Sarah, have I…?"

"No, Jareth," she sighed, and she burrowed closer, her arms tight around his body, hands pressing into his back. He pulled her close again in return, resting his cheek on her hair. "It's not your fault."

"What is it, then?" He pushed back far enough to see her face. "What were you working on?"

"Nothing, when you came in." In spite of himself, he laughed, and leaned in to kiss her forehead. "But I got the journal out to work on ideas. Even though I…." She dropped her hand and then brought it up, neatly catching the crystal ball that formed there. He had tried, again and again, to get her to use his own upwards flick of the wrist; conjuring so produced a lighter, airier receptacle, more suitable to carry dreams and ideas. And indeed, as she raised it up to eye-level, he could see that the inside was cloudy and dark, the Dream inside indistinct.

He reached out and took it from her, palming it carefully; it was far heavier than his own manifestations, and also, somehow, far more fragile. Experimentally, he rolled it back and forth across his palm, using the attention required for the motion to help himself focus on removing and adjusting her Summoned magic. When the crystal was as clear as one of his, and nearly as strong, he flicked it to his fingertips and looked inside again.

The Dream was gone.

Sarah had watched his actions quietly, not objecting, but when she saw the result, she let out a moan, hiding her face in her hands.

"I should be _good_ at this!" she burst out. "I studied the mind, for years! Where are those children I helped, I loved? Why can I describe what someone needs, but not manifest it? Even my ideas, that I try to write for you, are not enough—I don't have your creativity and I can't keep up with you." She dropped her eyes, ashamed. Jareth had his own private opinion on the reason for her failure—her Dreams were often intricately detailed, which added a weight of purpose that made them difficult to convey—but he was uncertain if she would accept that criticism in the spirit in which it was intended.

"It will come in time," he said, instead, and he meant it. It was entirely likely that she would never be his equal in that arena—he had a particular talent with Dreams—but anyone could learn to be passable and she had the advantage of incentive and intelligence.

"Jareth, it's been years! Why can't I get it right?"

"It has not been so very long, Sarah." What were four thousand days, when he had already lived nearly a million? "You must learn to see with immortal eyes."

"Immortal eyes?" she said skeptically.

"Your time here seems long to you, for you might have accomplished much in the world Above in the same span of days. But Time has little dominion, here; change comes slowly when it comes at all. Indeed, you have made remarkably fast progress."

"_This_ is fast?"

"We all have particular talents," he reminded her, "though what leads to a particular talent has never been defined. You compare yourself to me and find yourself wanting, but I am your superior in age and experience, _and_ I have a natural talent for mind magic. Comparing yourself to me is like comparing the abilities of a young child to your own accomplishments."

"So I'm a child, then?" She spun from his grasp, her eyes flashing.

"That is _not_ what I said." His tone matched hers, and he grabbed her roughly by the shoulders, tightening his grip until she looked up and met his eyes. Facing the hurt and hopelessness he saw there, he softened. "Sarah…."

"I'm sorry, Jareth," she said quietly. "I know you didn't mean…." She pressed once more into his embrace, kissing where her lips rested, against his chest. "I just felt so… I can't…."

"It is this place," he answered, one hand twining in her hair as he held her close. "As wondrous as it can be, it also wears one down."

She nodded into his chest. "It's easier, when you're near."

"I know." He kissed her hair. In his mind, Lisa was waking up, calling him. And though he felt some relief that Sarah had finally spoken openly of these concerns, he knew also that, at heart, nothing had changed.

* * *

_A/N: The original outline of this chapter had no sex, and then Sarah demanded it. Clearly I should just give up the idea that I'm the one driving this bus. This whole sequel thing was her idea from the beginning._

_Also, something I want to address publicly, because if one person comments on it many must be thinking it: yes, this story has a lot more swearing than my previous, and indeed, a lot more than is normal for me. I considered toning it down, early on, but the truth is, most of the guys I know who are like Toby—mid-20s, single, and not particularly religious—swear as a regular part of their vocabulary. Toby's "voice" is based on a dear friend of mine who lived with me for a year after he got out of the Navy—who is now married, and who has grown up quite a bit since that time. In the end, I made the decision to stay true to the character: as much as As Easy Mayst Thou Fall was told in Sarah's voice, this one is in Toby's and Jareth's._

_And: I'm sorry for the delay. I won't make excuses, only say I am still here, thinking about the story even though posting has considerably slowed. I even wrote some of this chapter by hand while on vacation! I've also been working on that other story—it's up around 7000 words now—but I'm sure you'd all rather I finished this one first!  
_


	9. Moving Right Along

**Chapter 9: Moving Right Along **

_January 22, 2011, 3:21 PM_

"And then you got the second bedroom, back here."

The man had one of those irritating local accents, all long A's and flat vowels, and it put Toby's teeth on edge. He opened the bedroom door and stepped aside so that Sarah could enter first, the baby cuddled, sleeping, to her chest. The landlord stepped back, giving her a wary look; he had seemed almost afraid of Ruthie ever since they came in.

"Be a good place for the little'un, back here. Not a lot of extra space, place like this, but it's as far from the master as you'll get, gives a bit of privacy, all that."

Toby followed after Sarah, who went and opened the closet door; it was narrow, and deep, with risers almost like big steps leading back out of sight.

"I think this closet might go to Narnia." She smiled and stepped inside, peering up into the darkness.

"Great for storage!" the landlord crowed. "All them extra diapers and what have you. I know my wife is always buying them." He had obviously missed the reference.

Toby wandered over to the window, an old affair of slightly warped, single-paned glass that looked out into a depressing alley. It was generously sized, at least: the room would be full of natural light in the afternoons. But other than the size of the windows, he saw little to recommend the room, or the apartment. Parts were charming, perhaps, but he was a practical guy: it also had ancient fixtures, cracking paint, beat wood flooring, thin windows, and walls that probably wanted insulation. This place was old, and would be hell to heat.

But he could see that Sarah loved it.

He turned back and caught the landlord's eye, and the man's lips stretched into a smile; he glanced at Sarah with an appreciative eye, then threw Toby a wink. Toby suddenly wanted to punch him.

"Give us a minute?" he said instead.

"Sure thing, man." He sauntered over to the door, winked at Toby, and disappeared.

Toby joined Sarah at the closet, looking up into the darkness. When she raised her hand, he saw one of the crystals he'd gotten used to seeing sitting in her palm, shining with light. He registered the cracked wood of the walls and the spider webs up near the ceiling, but suddenly none of it seemed to matter, not next to her smile.

"You want it." It wasn't a question.

"I think it's perfect!" Sarah answered. "The bedrooms are apart so we won't bother you, it's near public transit which we both want, and the apartment itself is so charming!"

"You mean the paint is peeling and the plumbing is old, not to mention the wiring? Hardly my definition of charming."

"Don't worry about it. I can fix a lot of this stuff, and older stuff is simpler so it's actually easier. And it has these great hardwood floors, and a real claw foot tub. Are you really going to argue with that?"

He laughed. "Far be it for me to get between a woman and her claw foot tub!" He shook his head, a rueful smile lingering. "We might be able to get some money off the rent for fixing it up. If I can negotiate that, we'll take it."

* * *

Several days later, Toby stood in front of his closet, wondering how exactly it had come to be such a mess. Oh, the work clothes hung well enough, but the boxes on the shelves above exploded with miscellanea, and the floor of the closet was a jumble of shoes, fallen ties, and boxes of video games and outdated game systems. One such box had tipped over, spilling a tangled nest of old cords into a corner. Mixed into the pile were some sort of colored dots, which he had first thought were controller buttons but which, upon further inspection, proved to be Skittles.

Wonderful.

He hadn't really noticed, before, how much his housekeeping had gone downhill since Erin moved to California. The front rooms stayed neat, but in the bedroom, he had apparently shoved things back into the closet more than he really wanted to admit.

It was probably worse under the bed.

And now he had to pack it up.

His opinion of the landlord hadn't improved in the week since their visit. The man was lazy, which probably accounted for how the apartment had gotten into that state in the first place. He hadn't wanted the work of negotiating what repairs would afford what discounts, but Toby had taken the place anyway: instead of arguing, when Toby pointed out the issues, the man had just knocked a flat $100 off the monthly rent. That was good enough, since it wasn't like they'd spend much, if anything, on the repairs.

He had been astonished at the extent to which Sarah's magic was becoming part of their everyday lives. True to what she'd told him originally, she couldn't make food of any kind—even her conjured water tasted limp and empty. But as she rested with him and recovered from her journey, he'd started to see little manifestations of magic in everything she did. She had an easier time repairing existing items than starting from scratch, so she'd managed to make the clothes and baby items from Goodwill look nearly new.

But that wasn't to say the past two weeks been nothing but easy. Seeing his parents had been hell. Mom was determined that he was going to have _someone_ in his life and it wasn't going to be _that woman_ with the baby who had so intruded on her only son's home.

_"Oh, and then Jan, Sandy's mom, you remember Sandy, you sang with her in that play in first grade? Anyway, I ran into her at the supermarket last week and she said Sandy was moving downtown for work. I told her you'd be happy to show her around, you know, help her out, when she comes."_

_Toby remembers Sandy, very well, thank you very much. Way too skinny, no boobs, no hips, a perpetual frown, and an attitude like she was above the world, just gracing it with her presence. Also, blonde. He's always liked brunettes. _

_"She'll be here at the start of February, okay? I expect you to be welcoming, we've been friends with her parents for just _ages_ so don't you dare be rude or too busy." Toby nods, and rolls his eyes._

Dad's reaction hadn't been as pronounced, but he, too, had been concerned. They had arrived at the apartment, that night after dinner, to find Sarah watching a movie, Ruthie asleep on her chest. Watching a _Linda Williams_ movie. Toby had barely restrained himself from groaning aloud.

_Sarah pauses the movie and greets them politely, asking about their dinner and their drive. Mom brushes her off, with a frown at the baby, her attention already on the new clothes, food, and new coat she's brought him, as though he couldn't provide for himself. Dad stands in the doorway for a long time, though, watching her, and Toby can see that she's trying hard not to look at him just as closely. She dips her head to give Ruth a kiss, and Toby can see the single tear that drips down into the baby's hair._

_When they leave, Dad takes him aside. "There's something about that girl," he says. "Something odd." Toby says nothing; contradiction would be pointless but he also can't tell the truth. "Be careful with her. Don't let her take advantage." Toby nods, and Dad claps a hand on his shoulder before he closes the door._

At least she'd apologized for the movie, later. It was new, since she'd left—thirteen years ago Linda Williams had been far more famous on stage than on screen—and she'd seen that it was on TV and jumped at the chance; she'd thought it would be over before they got home. He understood, but he also showed her how to use the DVR Record function. Mom didn't need to be thinking of Sarah and Linda Williams in the same thought.

The rest of the week had been much the same. Mom refused to acknowledge Sarah, and took every chance she had to remind him that he had his own life—"you shouldn't be giving it away to some nobody!"—and then attempt to live it for him. Dad, though he also seemed to disapprove, at least greeted her cordially, and Toby had caught him making faces at Ruth the night before they left, Ruth smiling and giggling back at him. And his parting, "she seems nice enough, just don't forget what I told you," seemed positively glowing next to Mom's admonition to "remember what's good for you and don't get led around by a pretty face."

He'd tell his parents about the move once it was done. There was no use beforehand. Maybe he could tell them that Sarah was paying her share? No, Sarah would veto that, since she didn't have any money and she was so fanatically against telling lies.

_"It's not a matter of won't, Toby," she tells him heatedly. "It's a matter of can't. Or—anyway—_he_ doesn't, I don't know if he can or not but I don't think so, and anyway I don't like to, and for me anyway my tongue gets all twisted up and won't even work if I try to say something blatantly false."_

_"But if I could just—" His parents are coming and simple lies are so much easier than the extraordinary truth._

_"And what if they ask me? No, it has to be this way. Follow my script."_

She was _contributing_, though, magically. They could say she was pulling her weight, or renting the room, and not talk about the money value. Mom would still hate it, but she would hate Sarah the roommate far less than Sarah the freeloading couch surfer, and she came around often enough that he really didn't want to be at odds on every visit.

He'd gotten used to Ruth, too, he found. She no longer woke him up at all hours, though sometimes he would hear Sarah up with her. Over the last weekend Ruth had been particularly fussy, and he'd stayed up with them, basking in Sarah's presence even when the child was, for the moment, more trial than joy. He could see, too, that Ruth's hesitancy with both of them was fading away. Whatever youthful memory of her mother might remain began to turn to Sarah, and more often than not she greeted his coming, as well, with a smile or a happy burble. His few friends with kids were always complaining about this or that that the kid got up to, but in his experience it hadn't been so bad. He didn't know if it was just Ruthie, if Sarah was just that good of a mom, or if it was the magic, but he didn't care so long as it didn't change.

And there was Sarah.

He had thought, at first, that what he felt for her would change, as he lived with her, as he saw her as his sister, and not as a beautiful woman. But if anything, it was getting worse. It was wrong, and he knew that, to feel this way about a relative, but he couldn't help himself. The curve of her hip as she bent over Ruth's cradle, the sound of her laugh at one of his jokes or at the baby's antics, the smell of her hair when she curled next to him on the couch to watch a movie; all called to him, all required his attention, all demanded his response.

Some days he hated himself. He was wrong, and he was going to hell, and he could hardly bring himself to care. Almost, when it had come time to decide if they would stay together or if Sarah would need to find another home, he had thought that perhaps it would be better if he sent her away. The words had been on the tip of his tongue, but when he opened his mouth, they wouldn't come. Instead he told her that he had given his landlord notice and they would go apartment-hunting the next day.

Other days his feelings didn't seem so wrong, and that was almost more terrifying. She was only his half-sister, after all, and she wasn't even human anymore. Surely that wasn't quite the same as—as that word, that dirty word, that he wasn't quite ready to admit was on his mind. The word the world would use, if they knew.

The word Sarah would use, if she did.

He was her baby brother, in spite of the fact that they now appeared the same age. She loved him, but as a sister loves a brother she is sworn to protect, not as a woman loves a man, or even as a woman loves a friend in a way that could be more if the pieces fell right.

But as much as it was killing him to have her near, it would be worse, far worse, if she turned from him, if she left him in horror or disgust. So he would get a new apartment, and move in with her permanently, and be to her what he could, and refuse to blame himself for dreaming of her at night.

* * *

The candy extricated—Skittles never did go bad—and the cords jammed back into the box they'd fallen from, Toby wandered out of the bedroom, in search of packing tape to close the whole thing up tight. The box was ready to fall apart, but it didn't need to go far, and would probably survive this move. Sarah had been sitting with Ruth when he came home, but she'd been packing books earlier; she should know where it was.

But Ruth was alone in the living room. Sarah was missing, but he could see the bathroom door was closed; she must be there. He approached to knock and ask after the tape, then paused.

Someone was crying, beyond the closed door. _Sarah_ was crying. He could hear her, though she tried to suppress it: little gasps and sobs, harsh inhale and broken exhale. Sarah was crying, and he did not know why.

"Sarah?" He knocked at the door, gently, then, as she failed to answer, firmly. "Sarah!"

He heard her breath catch, and then a moment of silence, and a deep breath.

"Just a minute, Tobes," she said finally, and he smiled in spite of his concern—she hadn't used that nickname with him, yet. He liked that every day they grew closer, every day she seemed more at ease with him and with their life. He heard the sink turn on, and the swift _swish_ of tissues leaving their box, and Sarah's quiet sniffles.

"Will you tell me what's wrong?" He had tried to be patient, to wait till she came out, but he could not help his concern.

Silence again, but this time it sounded waiting, like she was considering his request.

"I guess. If you want to know."

"Of course I do."

The pause was shorter, this time.

"Give me a minute to clean up."

"I'll be in the kitchen. You want some tea?"

"Please."

He filled a few mugs and shoved them in the microwave, then went out to the living room to check on Ruthie. They had found one of those mats with toys that arched overhead for cheap, yesterday at a yard sale; Sarah had fixed its broken leg easily. Ruth smiled when she saw him, and he crouched down beside her, reaching past the toys to tickle her belly. She curled her legs up, in response, and laughed. When he began to move away, she made a grab for his hand, and he let her close her little fist around his finger and hold on until the microwave beeped.

He pulled the mugs from the microwave and dunked in tea bags. As he set them on the table and went for the sugar, he heard Sarah emerge and cross the living room. She paused, near where Ruth lay, and stood for a moment, then inhaled sharply once more and moved to join him in the kitchen. When she rounded the corner and approached the table he could see fresh tears in her eyes.

"Thanks," she said, as he pushed the tea at her. She sat down slowly and produced a tissue, wiping her eyes once more before raising the mug. He watched her carefully as she sipped, and smiled when the ghost of a smile crossed her lips: he'd gotten it right. She liked her tea dark, almost overbrewed, with just a touch of sugar.

"Are you alright?"

She bit her lip, looking down into her cup for a long moment.

"I guess." She sniffed, and balled up the tissue in her hand; when her hand opened again, it was empty. "I'll be okay. It was stupid to get my hopes up, anyway."

"Your hopes up?" He was completely baffled, now. "Hopes for what?"

"I…" she looked away. "I hoped—there was a chance—that I was pregnant. I'm not."

"Pregnant? But you said you—and that you couldn't—and you were ex-lovers anyway!" It was ridiculous to be this angry, and he knew that, but it hurt anyway. How much was she asking him to take on? Ruthie was… Ruthie was great, but if she had a kid now… he had complicated his life enough, as it was.

And he didn't want anything else around to remind her of the Fucking Goblin King.

"I… it wasn't likely. But there was a chance. The last night, we…."

Oh. "So what, you're not together but you still have to get in a goodbye fuck before you poof off and leave him to chase you?" What kind of sick game was she playing, anyway?

But she'd flinched at the phrase _goodbye fuck_, and now he felt like the world's biggest tool.

"Sarah…." He reached for her hand, where it lay on the table, but she drew it back.

"Don't," she said, tears standing in her eyes again. "Just don't."

"I shouldn't have—"

"No, you shouldn't have." Those first few words were angry, but then she stopped herself, and sighed.

"But I shouldn't have, either. You're right, it wouldn't have been fair to get you to go to all this trouble and then spring that on you, if it had been true. I should have mentioned the possibility earlier." She pressed her thumbs into the corners of her eyes, wiping away moisture as they drew away. Their eyes met, and she gave him a tremulous smile.

In the living room, he could hear Ruthie fussing; it would be bedtime soon, but she almost never settled down without a cuddle.

He stood, and reached for her, and she let him pull her up into his arms and hold her; carefully, he kept them loose, a brotherly tension, though he ached to crush her closer. She wrapped her arms around him in return, and rested her forehead briefly against his shoulder before she pulled back and away. He let her go.

"Let's get her settled," she said, her voice more normal now. "Once she's asleep, can we talk a bit? There's something I should tell you that might help you understand."

"Sure," he answered, now burning with curiosity. "Can… can you give me a hint?"

She bit her lip, considering, and then nodded.

"You probably know that you're not the only reason I'm here, though I did want to see you. There's more to it than that." He nodded; she'd made that clear from the start and he had mostly stopped resenting it. "I'll tell you the whole story, eventually, I promise, but as a first step… I need to tell you about my son."

* * *

_A/N: Tell me you hate me. It will make me giggle._

_Additionally, it is time to announce that **ChestnutBrumby** has the honor of being the first signed-in reviewer to correctly identify the book Jareth is reading in Chapter 2. It was Lord Foul's Bane by Stephen R. Donaldson, the first of The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant the Unbeliever. **ChestnutBrumby,** you are invited to choose one interaction (conversation, event, etc) you would like to see between any two characters who have appeared in this fic or in As Easy Mayst Thou Fall. If it serves the plot it will go in the main story; if not, I'll write it as a stand-alone extra. Do not feel the need to be restricted to who is Above and who is Below; if the characters will not meet in the story it will be an outtake/AU._

_And thanks as always to my friend and beta **etcetera nine**, who is a Real Live Editor and took time out of her busy job to read this over for me._


	10. So Much Like Fear

**Chapter 10: So Much Like Fear**

_5232 Days (February 23, 2006)_

One becomes, very quickly, unused to solitude.

Jareth perched in the window to Sarah's suite; staring through both glass and the veil of magic that separated them. Inside, Sarah sat with the boy—with Ciro—in her lap, their attention fixed on the book held open before them.

He watched as Sarah turned the page, slowly, slowly, the lock of hair pushed behind her ear spilling gently, slowly, forward as she moved. Today was extremely Long—more than sixty Aboveground hours—and so he passed some three seconds, on the windowsill, for each one that passed in Sarah's rooms.

He had been watching for nearly an hour before they finished the book. As Sarah moved to put it down, Ciro looked up and caught sight of him. Jareth was careful to hold very still; the time difference was enough that he feared frightening the child if he moved too quickly. Ciro spoke, and pointed towards the window; at his indication, Sarah looked up, smiling widely.

She leaned down to the boy and spoke in his ear; he hopped nimbly off her lap and ran towards Jareth, climbing onto the bench beneath the windowsill so that he could see, clearly, out the window. Sarah, gracefully, rose and followed, and Jareth's eyes could no longer watch the child; he was lost, utterly, in the slow-motion sway of her hips under her long skirt.

Sarah rested a hand on Ciro's head, smoothing his hair, and he looked up at her and spoke, gesturing at Jareth. How he wished he could hear them! But sound was too strange, translated across the boundary of time, and so, for peace of mind, they had worked a simple spell of silence into the barrier as well.

Ciro spoke again, and Sarah sat on the bench at his side, touching his cheek as she replied. Her manner with him had always been easy; Jareth had been correct to believe that she would be a good mother. After one more brief exchange, Ciro waved cheerily at Jareth, then hopped down from the bench and ran for the bedroom.

Sarah watched him go, then leaned closer to the window, and met Jareth's eyes, raising one hand to rest on the barrier that divided them. He leaned in as well, touching his feathered head to magic wall, feeling the current that ran through it, like a flow of water across his feathers.

Their eyes held for a long moment, and Sarah smiled sadly. Owl eyes had not the expression of a man's, but he did his best to pour his longing for her into his gaze. Then, at some unheard cue, Sarah broke their communion to look briefly towards the bedroom. She met his eyes again, and mouthed, "I love you," then let her hand fall, and walked away.

* * *

He had been correct: once they moved away from a focus on dream magic and began to explore Sarah's natural talents, she progressed rapidly. She picked up Transportation almost as quickly as she had managed the Stairs, and had also shown some talent for changing physical objects: she could easily repair broken items—the goblins provided sufficient pieces for practice—and even the transmutation of an item from one form to another.

The only physical magic at which she did not excel was the production of edible items. Sarah, eventually resigned to the fact, hypothesized that it was part and parcel of her Aboveground difficulty with biochemistry, which had also contributed to her decision to pursue psychology rather than psychiatry. She brushed off his assurances that she would improve with practice—it had not been an easy skill for Jareth himself to master, either—and he noted, not for the first time, that if she got it in her head that she was not capable of something, it took a great deal of pressure, reassurance, or incentive to get her to move past her difficulty and try again.

She had taken easily to time magic as well, he had been pleased to discover. It was sensible, perhaps: an artifact of her origins in a time-based system and her natural sense of order. He taught her to recognize the passage of time as he did, though she seemed more easily able to release the distraction of continuously counting, and engage the ability only when required, a difference that he envied. She also lacked his connection to Time Aboveground, but that was to be expected: it was a consequence of his position, not a natural inclination. Eventually she had asked him why he used minutes and seconds and hours when they were arbitrary times in the Labyrinth, not based on any natural cycle, and he admitted that yes, it was arbitrary, but it was the arbitrary system that both of them had been raised in, and thus made as much sense as any other.

But despite Sarah's improved accomplishments, Jareth could not say that he was content. He had hoped that discovering her natural talents would lessen the magical obsession that had been at least some part of Sarah's melancholy, but the effect had been quite the reverse. In Sarah's view, that would could be mastered _must_ be mastered immediately; frequently, she worked sunrise to sundown, and even late into the night.

He would seek her out, and she would join him, but even then, he would catch a faraway look in her eyes; her mind departed, though her body was with him, and he found himself seeking her company less often. Neither did she now visit the friends she had met in the Labyrinth. He had encountered that _dwarf_ earlier, as he surveyed his boundaries, and had been accused of "keepin' her all to yerself;" he had taken great pleasure in informing the creature—quite honestly, as it well knew—that he did not control Sarah's schedule and if she had neglected him, that was her own affair.

All in all he had been remarkably polite. When the creature's spluttering ceased to amuse, he had simply Transported away. The fact that this was the dwarf's least favorite dismissal could hardly be blamed upon Jareth.

He Dreamed less, these recent days, consumed first with helping Sarah, and then with seeking her: inspiration was lacking. But he was not concerned: he had learned, well enough, over all his years, that the one truth of immortality was that the only constant was change. Inspiration would return, and the world would not suffer for a few years' lighter work.

It bothered him far more that Sarah had yet to notice.

He found her in the library, but she was not reading. Instead, she was focused intently on an empty shelf, channeling magic through her fingers as she restored its polish and straightened the warped wood. The books which had filled the shelf were stacked nearby; they were histories, mostly, the stories of small civilizations who had been beloved of his kind.

It was obvious that she neither heard nor sensed him: her concentration never wavered, nor did she acknowledge his presence even with a glance. No: she was completely consumed by the magic, her body tense and trembling with the force of the power. He could see that she still needed to touch each small area: she could not yet alter large areas with a single touch. As he watched, she paused, pressing one finger to the middle of the shelf and concentrating: the area around her finger shifted and straightened, a wider diameter than had previously been affected, but when she moved it slightly, her knees buckled, and she collapsed against the shelf.

He longed to catch her, to support her, but he had learned, by now, that to so mortify her pride would only make her angry.

"Sarah," he said, instead, and tried to smile, as though he had not seen.

"Don't pretend with me, Jareth." He had expected her to snap at him, but she only sounded tired. "You've been standing there for at least ten minutes." _Ten minutes, thirty-two seconds. _He had been wrong about her perception.

"You are improving, but—"

"Don't say it." It was true; this was an old argument. "I can only go so fast, I can only do so much, I push too much, I am only human, I can't expect that I—"

"Sarah!" Though her statement had started calm, her alarm escalated with each phrase, until, by the end, she was nearly yelling. This time he did not hold back: he took two quick strides to close the distance between them, and grasped her by the shoulders, tightening his grip until she looked up to meet his eyes.

He could say what he was thinking, but it would be pointless to rehearse the same arguments, to hear her same answers. She worked too hard, she expected too much, the time was too short. Only once had he ventured another argument: he missed her. That one, and that one alone, she had called manipulative and cruel. She claimed that she was only trying to be what he needed; she did not hear when he told her that she already was.

And all these things and more had already been spoken. He could be angry, but anger required an energy that this repetition had stolen. After three hundred days of bitter arguments, they had come to an agreement: if neither could say anything new in one hundred and twenty seconds—two minutes—then the argument would not continue; they would find another subject, or part and return to each other another day.

"Cannot I tempt you away?" He gave her a small smile, and released her shoulder so that he was free to cup her cheek.

"I suppose." She looked back at the bookshelf. "This doesn't really need to be done today." He refrained from saying that very little, here, was so urgent that it could not wait. "Could you give me a lesson in your shapeshifting? I can turn things into other things, it would make sense to be able to do it to myself as well."

He frowned. "Shapeshifting is a talent of my race, not a magical skill."

"So?" She shrugged. "I'm getting more like you anyway." She gestured towards her face, to the dark highlights that had begun to form across her eyelids as she discovered her true magical talents. "And if I can't do it that way, then there might be magic that can—"

"No," he interrupted sternly.

"What? Jareth, I—"

"You cannot change by magic alone." He was angry with her for suggesting it, angry that all she wanted was more of magic, but he forced himself to settle for a lecturing tone, forcing himself to calm; for all her experimentation, she did not know the rules. "You would be unable to regain yourself. A body adapted to natural shifting is required to permit an animal body to continue to process thoughts in the same manner as the natural shape. You are changing, but it is doubtful that such change is yet included." His voice softened. "And Sarah—I would not risk you."

Slowly, she nodded. "Well then, maybe you could show me—"

"No," he cut her off again, gently this time. "No more magic for you. Not today." She looked ready to argue again, and he raised a hand to stop her. "There are only a few more hours in the day, you need at least a short rest, and I—" He stopped. He had come close to saying it again: _I miss you_.

"Where do you get off telling me when enough is enough?" she burst out, angry at what he had not quite let slip. "You rely on it for everything! To get around, to get dressed, hell, to get me off!" He blinked at that; certainly he used expanded touch in their bedroom play, but it was hardly _required_. But she was not yet finished. "And then you're just going to come and say that enough is enough? That you know better than me what I'm capable of? Or maybe you just miss sweet innocent little Sarah, who would have worshipped at your feet."

There was nothing to say to that; she would not believe him if he denied it, though her accusation was as painful as it was unfounded. Had he not told her that he wanted nothing with that old dream, not when she was so much more? He loosened his hold and stepped back from her, not quite letting go, but not restraining her either.

"I'm sorry," she said, looking down and then back to his face. "That was… I shouldn't have said that. Jareth…." She stepped closer, putting a hand to his cheek, her thumb caressing gently.

"Do you apologize because what you say is untrue, or because you believe it but believe also that you should have kept such belief to yourself?"

She blinked. "The first one."

"You know that I am not trying to control you." _Not in the manner that you meant. Not beyond your will. Yet you would do better to heed me._ Sarah sighed, looking thoughtful, then, suddenly, her lips twisted up in a playful, predatory grin.

"You know what? Fine. No magic for me? Then none for you either," she challenged. "That's the deal." She crossed her arms and waited, eyebrow cocked.

"No magic?" He had anticipated spending time in the Labyrinth, perhaps returning to the water sprites' garden, but at this time of day that would require Transportation. Still, there was always…. "As you wish, my Sarah… I do not believe I need magic to please you." He pulled her close again, leaning in to whisper in her ear.

"No…" she leaned in too, breasts pressed to his chest, her lips tickling against his jaw, "but you need magic to get out of those pants." She laughed. "For that matter, you'd need magic to get me out of mine."

Clothing could be cut as well as Vanished, but a blade would also need to be conjured; weapons were generally not permitted in the Castle, for the safety of his subjects. Both sets of clothing were too thick to be torn. Companionship, then, not intercourse… and if she truly insisted that magic be eschewed completely, they could not even return to their quarters: it would require making use of the magic of the Stairs. He took that moment to truly close off his normal connection to the Castle, which maintained the cleaning and provisioning spells as well as providing lighting. It was an odd sensation: the parts of his mind normally concerned with such matters tingled and pulsed, like a limb deprived of bloodflow. Sarah looked about curiously as the lights in the library flickered out, but said nothing.

"Come." He twined his fingers with her and turned, pulling her towards the door.

"Where are we going?"

"You shall see."

* * *

The music room was dusty with disuse: he had not bothered to maintain the enchantment for cleanliness while Sarah was uninterested. Still, the room had been cleaned since Sarah's return, so it was the dust of years, not of centuries. While he could Conjure a passable instrument, and did so frequently when musical inspiration struck, he preferred to have one made by an expert: he could not match the perfection of, say, a Stradivarius violin. Sarah might be able to, if she put her mind to it and learned the related physics.

"What are we doing here?" she asked, releasing his hand to approach one of the walls, hung with instruments.

"Long ago, you said you would like to learn, someday. I thought we might make a beginning."

She turned in place, eyes searching the room. He took a moment to put himself in her place. He had rarely thought of it, but perhaps the collection was impressive: he had kept only the most promising of instruments from every culture he encountered, and then only if he could find one that was well-made. And, as friends and acquaintances lost interest in their own collections, before departing, he brought those in as well; the room was filled with instruments, but it held only his favorites. Others were stored elsewhere in the Castle. High on the wall, out of practical reach, deep windows pierced the walls, filling the room with bright sunshine, another reason he had chosen this room in a magicless challenge.

Sarah approached a section of the wall devoted to a display of drums, running her fingers across an Irish _bodhrán_, tapping lightly, listening to the pitch change with a curious, thoughtful frown. The fingers of her other hand rested on the rim of the similar, but larger, Persian _daf_, stroking lightly across the smooth wood of the frame.

He watched her, happy to see her distracted from her obsessive work, and smiled when she turned back to him.

"So… where do we start?" she asked, leaving the wall to approach him.

"I thought you would do best to dictate that," he answered. "Where would you like to begin?"

"I don't really know. There are… a lot of choices."

"Have you had any instruction?"

She shrugged. "Mom made me take piano lessons, when I was little. Only maybe six months or so. She had this dream about a mother-daughter act. She lost interest after…." She trailed off, and he could almost see her putting the pieces together. "After she wished me away." She shook her head, slightly, shutting out the memory of her mother's abandonment. "I guess it doesn't matter."

"The pianoforte is an excellent place to start," he said. "The keyboard is a natural way to learn theory. Come." He beckoned her over to the corner of the room that housed the instrument, as well as an older, smaller harpsichord and other older keyboard instruments. Dust slid from the polished oak frame as he raised the lid; at least the keys were clean, protected by their cover. The matching bench was small, and he was not permitted to use magic to expand it. Instead, he pushed himself over to one edge, patting the bench to encourage her to sit next to him. She did not, however, instead leaning against the case near the upper register

"It looks… different," she said, frowning at the keys. "Like there's something out of place." She pointed to a key. "That's middle C?"

"It is the C closest to the middle of the keyboard," he replied. "This was a term used by your teacher?"

"You don't know?"

"This instrument is relatively new," he replied, "though the keyboard system is familiar to me because of its similarity to the pipe organ, which is far older. I had formal lessons on the organ, but what I know of the piano I learned by observation, intuition, and plain guesswork."

"Observation?"

"I did not create this piano, Sarah."

"You got it—"

"Above, yes." He had acquired this piano in 1840, the last time he had been able to find his way Above without a Wish until Sarah called him. "From a man named Camille Pleyel, in Paris."

"You… bought it?" She frowned.

"In a manner of speaking, yes." The conversation had taken an unexpected turn, but he did not mind. Sarah looked thoughtful, and focused upon him, and that was all that was required.

"You're playing that game again," she said, rolling her eyes. "How _do _you get things Aboveground? I'm assuming you don't steal them, but I know I didn't see you pay for the meal, the first time you took me out. Convincing someone that you paid is just the same as stealing, you know."

He laughed, ignoring her minor insult. "Once upon a time Men were glad to gratify their gods. But I did no such thing. I am surprised you never asked me before, Sarah."

"So? Do you just conjure money?"

"I suppose I could, but that would require keeping up with the intricacies of currency in every country in the world; I could do so, if I desired, but frankly it does not hold my interest. No, I suppose you would call it a barter system."

"You're not walking around telling everyone about magic."

"No. In the case of the restaurant owner, I _convinced _him—magically—that he desired to provide a free meal for myself and a guest. I returned the following day and repaired every appliance in his kitchen, returning them to new. Without his knowledge, of course, but he should not notice; he will only see how exceptionally fortunate he has been, that nothing breaks down."

Sarah blinked at him. "And the cab driver?"

"Burned no fuel while we rode with him, and did not lack for custom all evening." Automobiles were one new fascination he had taken the time to learn during that week Above. Following Sarah the entire time, as part of him had wished to do, would only have frightened her.

She was silent, for a long time, staring down into the open piano. He ran his fingers over the keys, ivory and ebony warming under his touch. He remembered the first time he had seen this instrument, the music pouring forth from the fingers of a talented young composer and performer. What could he play for her? What would she know? She had appreciated the concert they attended; he remembered her joy in _Peter and the Wolf_, even if he had been too overcome by _Peer Gynt_ to observe much of her reaction there.

What was he feeling? What did he _want_? He could play the music he had written for her ballroom dream, but it seemed far too much a plea for attention. No: if he wished to call attention to the instrument, then he must choose something designed to showcase its talents. Perhaps something which he could even encourage Sarah to learn. Something she might enjoy.

And then he knew. The song was not cheerful, not peaceful, but he felt neither of those things in this moment. He felt… a little bit alone, even with her here.

Sarah glanced at him when he began to play, but said nothing. The piece began softly, a slow haunting melody and simple, repeated chords, the work of pedals and a very light touch required to keep it from racing out of control. Timesense warred with _rubato_ expression and he harkened back to the memory of hearing this piece from its composer's hands, closing his eyes to remember that exquisite, emotive performance, the candlelit salon hushed with awe.

The melody curled around and returned, rose, fell, returned again, the tension growing, the crescendo imminent. He leaned in, unconsciously, fingers finding the keys unerringly, though it had been decades since he played. And then that burst: not faster, no, not faster, but louder, yes, louder, the melody soaring, loosed from its former slavery, briefly transcendent—and return, and circle, and softly, softly close.

When even he could no longer hear the faint ringing of the last chord, he opened his eyes. Sarah stared back at him, spellbound, her lips parted. He wanted to stand, to kiss her, but to do so would break the tableau, ruin the moment. But she acted for him: she stepped closer, holding his gaze, her hand rising to cup his cheek and her eyes falling shut as her head bent to brush her lips gently with his.

"Beautiful," she breathed, against his mouth, and opened her eyes again, meeting his with so little distance to separate them. "Why haven't you played for me before?"

"You never asked."

"I didn't know what I was missing." She leaned into him, pressing her forehead to his, and swallowed, then released him, and moved away. He let her go, watching her from his place on the bench.

"Sarah?"

"You don't tell anyone about magic." He shook his head in confirmation, but it had been a statement, not a question. "Why not?"

Why not? Could not she see? "Sarah, say there is a man who comes to town, who claims he can work miracles, and then does. Over and over again, until even skeptics believe. What happens to him?"

Her face fell. "Everybody wants a piece."

"Yes. He becomes only a tool for their desires. But what happens when his power is not limitless?"

"I thought you could do almost anything! When you gave me that crystal, you said that you 'cannot bring back the dead' but could do most else, at least of things that were 'personal to me.' So what are the limits?" She paced back and forth as she spoke, spinning to glare at him with her last question.

"I do not mean limits of ability; while that does enter into the calculation, I am old enough and strong enough to render it moot. No, except for death, there is little I could not accomplish which stands in the realm of one man's personal desires. No: the problem is that the power itself is not limitless, not Above."

"You never seemed to have a problem."

"Ambient magic is everywhere, though there is more in some locations than others. A magic-user also accumulates magic in their person, which supplements ambient magic in areas where it is lacking. But it is a resource, finite as any other. Do you see?"

"You have to pick and choose." She sighed.

"How do you answer one man's dream, and not another's? Where do you stop? What problem is too small to fix with magic? What is too large to attempt? And what do you do when you say you cannot, and they do not believe?"

Painful memory intruded, and he could see that she remembered as well.

_"Send me back, right now, and I'll forgive you for this, and we can go back to letters for a while, if you still want to." Her eyes are so beautiful, even angry; he wants her passion. But just moments ago he believed he had it all, that she wanted this as much as he did, and yet that was false. He takes a sharp breath, and guards his heart against showing her too much._

_"Sarah. Look at me, Sarah." He cannot resist: he must touch her, stroke the set line of her jaw, coax her into complete attention, no sullenness. "I cannot send you back."_

_He hates the tears standing in her eyes, and blesses that they might hide that he wants to shake her, or maybe cry himself. "Can't, or won't?"_

_"I cannot." Does she not know? Has she no understanding of who he is?_

_"Liar. You can just claim that you can't, but you want me here, so here I stay." The accusation hurts like a thrust to the heart: she trusts him not at all. _

"Jareth." Suddenly she was standing right in front of him, her hands cupping his face. He rose, and wrapped his arms around her waist. She reached up and kissed him, briefly, then settled back in his embrace, biting her lip in thought. "That's… you've been trying to tell me that for a while now, haven't you. That magic isn't the solution to everything."

That was not the whole of it, so he said nothing, only met her eyes, his fingers drawing tiny, random patterns across her lower back. After a moment, she shook her head and looked away.

"I don't know, Jareth. I see what you're trying to say, but I still feel like I have to try…." She leaned in, resting against his chest. "I'll think about it."

"Thank you." He was about to suggest that they resume the music, that he teach her, perhaps the melody of the piece he had played, but as he opened his mouth to speak, a jolt of power slammed into him, unexpected and powerful, at the same time that words thundered in his head: _"I would that Minos take you and keep you, as tribute to the Labyrinth!"_

"What was that?" Sarah's voice sounded very far away. "Jareth?"

"A child." He shook his head once, swiftly, reasserting his control of the Labyrinth and the Castle, welcoming back the familiar flow of magic. "I must away. Go to the Throne Room. And Sarah—I hope you remember your Greek!"

* * *

Very early in the morning, Jareth opened the King's Door, and, gently but firmly, pushed past the barrier that blocked it, into her bedroom. The magic resisted at first, then, under increased pressure, shuddered and burst like a bubble of soap. It would be rebuilt in a few days' time, but the next several days would approach Aboveground lengths, and Jareth was determined to spend that time enjoying the company of Sarah and the boy she had adopted.

He had not slept at all, in anticipation of this moment. He entered her room quietly, delighted to find her alone in the bed: he blessed again his foresight in providing an adjoining room for Ciro. It had been different, when he was smaller, but he was now, Sarah told him, approximately six years old; he was more than old enough to sleep on his own.

Faint moonlight lit the room, softening its lines, and the curve of Sarah's cheek, her eyelashes an inky, contrasting shadow. His beauty; his. Today had been exhausting; most of the burden of their spell of time fell on his shoulders, and there had been the additional burden of the Long day, and long night. But it was worth it, to be here for her now.

When he had seduced her back Underground, he had thought that she would submit to him, that she would be his when needed and not otherwise, that she would fill unoccupied time. Instead, all he had once promised had come true: as long as she loved him, he would always be her slave.

And in his own way, too, he loved the boy.

The child had been with them some four hundred days, of which Jareth had spent thirty-four in his company. For the first two days, he had attempted to remain inside the barrier, keeping Time constant, but the length of the third such day had proved too great a strain: he collapsed, and the barrier snapped. When he awoke, almost a day later, Sarah had been nearly frantic, both at his state and at the amount of magic that had been allowed to influence the boy. Sharing her concern and unwilling to see such an event repeat, they had devised the current plan, which balanced Time and Magic by anchoring each with one of them: Sarah with Time, her natural element, and Jareth with Magic.

And though the barrier separated them, finding a way to care for Ciro had brought them back together. No longer was she distant or distracted: when he visited them, she was welcoming and loving. Gone were the petty arguments, the little injuries that had begun to tear at the edges of their happiness. Loving the child smoothed away the roughness, and the time apart let them cherish what they had together. And Sarah was happier in her new calling as a mother. Her magical obsession was finished, faded to healthy interest that he would nurture in due time.

"Jareth?" Sarah blinked, sleepily, her eyes slitting open to focus on him standing in the doorway. "It's early."

"It is very late, actually," he replied, approaching to sit next to her on the bed. She reached out and pulled at his hand, and he let her guide him down to lie beside her, his head on her pillow. He leaned in to kiss her forehead, and she smiled and closed her eyes.

"I missed you," she sighed. "Very late?"

"The new day is not yet begun."

That got her attention. "Jareth!" She pushed up on one arm, looking down at him as she blinked away sleep. "Yesterday was Long, wasn't it?"

"A few extra hours of sleep will do him no harm." He reached a hand to stroke her cheek. "And it gives us some time." He started to pull her down for a kiss, but surprised himself with a yawn.

She smiled. "And you were up all night?"

"Waiting until I judged it safe." The dark of the room worked with the late hour and the comfort of her presence; he could feel his weariness in his very bones.

"Come here." She raised the bedcovers in invitation. He waved the curtains closed at the window, shutting out the bright moonlight, then moved beneath and spooned behind her, one arm under her head as the other wrapped her waist to hold her close. He buried his face in the hair at the back of her neck, kissing her gently and inhaling her scent.

"Mmmm." Sarah shifted slightly, stretching, before settling back into his arms. Her bottom pushed back into his pelvis, and sleepiness began to give way to hunger. The hand at her waist shifted, tracing across her belly. "I'll say again: I missed you."

"It was your idea," he reminded her, bringing his hand up to brush the underside of her breast; he loved the firmness of her flesh beneath the soft silk nightgown she wore. She stiffened, and he pulled her closer, kissing across her shoulder. "Relax, love. I do not regret it. I chose it too. I was only teasing."

She remained silent, but he could feel her relaxing into his touch once more; most likely, she was thinking. He stroked her gently, continuing his kisses.

"Do you think it's working?" she asked, finally. Her hand reached back to stroke his hip and he growled his approval into her back, grinding his growing erection against her backside and making her giggle. "I thought you were tired?"

"Not too tired, not for you." She turned her face for a brief, hungry kiss; his hands moved down, pushing up the hem of her short nightdress to stroke the flesh beneath. "I need you, my Sarah."

Her top leg lifted slightly, and he put a hand to her belly, keeping her steady as he entered her. She made a sound that seemed equal parts hum of contentment and moan of anticipation, and he pulled her close to his chest, reveling in her warmth.

Immediate need for connection satisfied, Jareth's mind returned to her previous question. "It has been far longer than I expected this to work. I believe Ciro will do well." He began thrusting gently, slowly, a sleepy, sweet lovemaking that would prolong their intimacy.

"What?" She turned her head to look at him, eyes cloudy with desire.

"Ciro. I believe he will do well."

"Mmmm." Then she stiffened, pulling away. "Ciro! The door is open!"

He pulled her back, maintaining their connection. "Hush. He is asleep. Stay quiet, that he might remain so; I have not finished with you yet!" She giggled and relaxed, stifling her moan into her pillow as he rolled her, thrusting deeper.

There was lust in this embrace, and loneliness, but there was safety too: the satisfaction of some primal need to _claim_, to own. Sarah belonged to him, as much as he belonged to her. She was his to cherish, his to protect, and he wrapped his body around hers, clasping her tight, close, safe.

The urge came, now, to thrust harder, faster, to claim Sarah's satisfaction and demand his own, but as he moved to allow himself to do so, he caught sight of a pair of eyes, standing in the doorway.

"Jareth?" Sarah's voice was husky with need and the late hour, and when he stilled, she pushed back at him impatiently. "Why—"

"Ciro," he answered softly, dropping his head to rest in the crook of her neck.

"Mama?" The boy's voice was soft with sleep. With the curtains closed, the room was very dark, and the boy stood in the open doorway that led to the sitting room, framed by faint starlight from that room's window. "I woke up and it was dark."

Sarah cleared her throat and pushed away; Jareth let her go, rolling onto his back and Summoning a pair of loose pants. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, willing his erection to subside. Hopefully they could coax him back to sleep quickly.

"I know it's dark, baby," Sarah was saying, beckoning to the child from the edge of the bed. "But you can go back to sleep, right? Darkness is sleepy time."

He shook his head. "Not tired." As he stepped forward, his eyes widened, and Jareth knew that rest was over. "Daddy!" He ran the rest of the way across the room, jumping and throwing himself on the bed. Sarah caught him, arresting his momentum, but he started squirming immediately, and Jareth reached for him. In Jareth's arms, the boy quieted.

"Hello, little man."

"Is it tomorrow?" Ciro frowned thoughtfully. "Mama said you are coming tomorrow. But it can't be tomorrow if it's dark out."

"It is still today," he answered, smiling. "I was impatient for your company, so I came early."

"Oh." The frown persisted, and Jareth looked up into Sarah's eyes. She smiled back, and moved closer, putting an arm around Ciro as Jareth wrapped an arm around her. "What is 'impatient for your company?'" He spoke slowly, emphasizing the unfamiliar words.

Sarah laughed. "It means he wanted to see us, Little Wind."

"If you want to see us, you should just not go 'way." Ciro looked up at Jareth mournfully, and he swallowed, hard, wishing that yes, things could be different, that he could be more than a brief presence in the life of this child.

"We talked about that, honey," Sarah intervened, drawing the boy's attention. "Do you remember what we said?"

"I have to eat my vegetables." In spite of himself, Jareth laughed, and Sarah smiled.

"Do you remember the rest?"

"I don't wanna eat my vegetables, but I have to. Daddy doesn't wanna go 'way, but _he_ has to."

"Do you remember why?"

"So I can grow up big and strong!" Suddenly excited, he sprang to his feet, bouncing and then falling into the space between them. He looked down at himself, suddenly thoughtful again. "I'm not big and strong already?"

"You are my big strong boy," Sarah said, "but you need to be a big strong man."

"Like Daddy?"

"Like Daddy." Behind Ciro's head, Jareth yawned again; Sarah met his eyes and they shared a sympathetic smile. "But Daddy is very tired, right now… what do you say you and I go look at the stars?"

"Sarah—" Jareth felt the need to intervene. She was exhausted as well; she needed this just as much as he did. And if the boy did not sleep now, he might not adjust properly. Waking Ciro had figured in none of his expectations.

"Don't wanna look at stars," Ciro said stubbornly. "Wanna stay with Daddy."

"Even if Daddy has to sleep?"

The little boy blinked, and then yawned. "I can sleep too."

"Come here, Little Wind," Jareth said, and when the child put his arms around his neck, he leaned back into the pillow. Sarah followed them down, and both of them put their arms around the boy, cradling him between them. Jareth stroked the hair gently from his forehead, then leaned down and placed a kiss between his eyes, imbued with a minor enchantment for sleep.

"Did you—" Sarah began.

"He will sleep until sunrise," Jareth confirmed.

"I'm sorry we couldn't…" she trailed off, but made her meaning clear with a caress along his hip that made him chuckle, and then yawn again.

"Tomorrow is soon enough, love. Sleep." He curled around them both, drawing Sarah close with a leg entwined at the knee and a hand at her waist. His to keep, his to protect, Sarah and the boy. Now and always.

* * *

Four days passed in a blink. Ciro was the center of his days: he never tired of listening to stories, and Jareth never tired of telling them. This time, he asked again and again for stories of people who turned into animals, and Jareth obliged: "The Three Swans" and "The White Duck" and "The Frog Prince" and "Beauty and the Beast" and many more besides. Ciro begged him to "be an owl!" and Jareth showed him, but only once; he could not interact, so well, in that form.

And at sunset, when Ciro slept, there was Sarah: content, devoted, caring Sarah, with sweet touches and passionate heat and all the little stories of the parts of Ciro he had not yet seen. This was the first time he had had so many days in a row: there would be six in total, ranging in length from twenty to twenty-seven Aboveground hours. It was long enough that they could fall into routine; long enough to forget, for a few days in the middle, that this was a tiny haven carved from the loneliness that came from living on the other side of the window.

There had been no domesticity, in his youth. He had raised himself, more than anything, his mother still devoted to her duty, his father absent, unknown. Among some Men, he had seen it, had craved it, that attention. That love to a child. In the past, early in his tenure, he had occasionally allowed the goblins to fill that role, entertaining and teaching them, their form maintaining that childlike wonder even as they lacked potential, lacked growth, lacked that spark that made Ciro ask him one moment whether having feathers tickled (not in the slightest) and the next whether or not he knew the name of every creature in the Labyrinth (of course, he did—when he bothered to remember).

On the fourth day, knowing how long it had been since Sarah had done anything but remain inside with Ciro, he sent her out into the Labyrinth, taking charge of the boy for the day. He took him to the Eyrie, the first time Ciro had been permitted out of Sarah's rooms since his arrival. Ciro loved the birds, and the view; Jareth pointed out various sections of the Labyrinth to him, telling him their stories, and when the child asked if there were other stories of shapechangers in the Labyrinth, or of flight, it was quite natural that Icarus should come to mind. After all, the boy should know some of the history of his people. They stayed, and watched, and played, until the stars came out and the boy fell asleep.

Sarah did not come in until long after dark; he woke when she came to bed, and pulled her close. She snuggled into his shoulder, and twined her fingers into his hair.

"Day okay? Ciro behaved?" She yawned into the last word, and he chuckled.

"Most of my subjects are childlike, Sarah; I am well capable of caring for children." She shrugged, and then nodded. "How did you find your dwarf?"

"I'm sorry; I know you can, it's just, you haven't."

"Not for lack of desire."

"I know." She was quiet a moment. "He has a name, you know." She poked him in the side, and he twisted, pinning her to dance light, tickling kisses along her neck and collarbone.

"Hogsbreath?" he asked, and she giggled. "Hobble?"

"Jareth!"

"You give him _my_ name?" Instead of replying, she launched herself up at him, still laughing, kissing him hard so that he could not speak. He broke the kiss with a smile, rolling them again so that she straddled his waist.

"It was nice to be out in the air, again," she said, thoughtfully. "I was thinking—could we change the boundaries of the spell to include the balcony? I'm sure it can't be good for Ciro to be so cooped up, either."

He considered. The spell was fragile; he had broken it easily, every time he visited. It was safer to keep it mostly encased in stone, or just beyond glass, safe from interference. But he had seen the light in the boy's face today, up in the Eyrie, and his disappointment when he had suggested going back inside. The rail of the balcony was solid, and the child old enough to learn not to push.

"We will make the attempt," he decided, and she kissed him again.

* * *

Leaving days were never easy. Re-casting the barrier took more than an hour, and Ciro was never happy about it. Today was worse than ever; they had told him of the plan for the balcony, hoping to secure his cooperation, but it had had exactly the opposite effect: he could not hold still, and ran screaming back and forth between the rooms of Sarah's suite, babbling on about birds and sunshine and Icarus. He was tempted to put the child to sleep until they were finished, but too much magic was not good for the boy; Sarah was particularly sensitive about that. He had been pushing it even that first night with the sleep spell.

The barrier spell began on the wall opposite the balcony; they would finish just adjacent, at the door to the King's Stair. Their hands, entwined, stroked over the walls and floor, then extended towards the ceiling, beckoning the barrier across the closed space. Once begun, the spell required that they continue: they would be too tired to begin again, once the initial work was accomplished. When they moved out to the balcony, Ciro followed, and seated himself in a chair Jareth had conjured the previous day, swinging his feet and watching them. The barrier shivered and waved as they drew it across the empty air, and for a brief moment Jareth thought they would falter, and leapt up onto the stone railing, reaching up to anchor the spell to the base of his chamber's balcony above.

"Daddy fly!" The boy's cry, loud and piercing, drew his attention, his eyes flying to the boy, who stood, now, on the chair, his hands on the railing, pushing up.

"Ciro, no!" Sarah turned her head, and screamed. The boy balanced, now, on the thick stone parapet, and put his hands against the barrier they had cast.

"I wanna fly!" Ciro's hands on the barrier pounded, and then pushed, and Jareth began to leap down at the same time as Sarah pulled away, releasing the spell at the same moment as Ciro broke through the barrier.

Time slowed, then stopped, but wound up in casting and surprise, Jareth had no control as the broken, incomplete spell fizzled and then burst, Time and Magic intermixed and volatile. He saw Sarah fly backwards, her head knocking hard against the stone wall; she did not rise. He tumbled, head over feet, and fell halfway to the ground before he could Change, and fly.

And he saw Ciro, falling, his arms outstretched, and just before the boy hit the ground, he vanished.

* * *

_A/N: So, hi. I know it's been a while. I'm sorry. I got put on a new project at work, and instead of spending my days at a desk, where I could zip over to a Word document and dash off a few hundred words at a time as the fancy struck me (which is how I wrote most of As Easy), I spent the last two months outside, digging in the dirt. For that reason, about half this chapter was written by hand during my lunch breaks, a process which takes significantly more time (see how much I love you?). I hope you'll find it was worth the wait. I can offer the consolation that it's double the length of a normal chapter, at least. Hell, it's longer than The High Price of Happiness_.

_I'm also up to 12k words on The Other Story, which is called **The First and Last Diary of Sarah Williams**, and I put a little blurb about it up on my profile, but with this new project at work, I do not think it will be ready in August as I had originally hoped. _

_Jareth and Sarah in the music room when Ciro arrived resulted from **Chestnut Brumby**'s challenge to me from last chapter, which was that I write "a 'date' between Sarah and Jareth, at any point in their relationship, which takes place in the Underground and for which Sarah challenges Jareth to impress her without any use of magic." Sorry if you were looking for straight fluff; this isn't a fluffy part of the story._

_Pleyel is a famous manufacturer of pianos based in Paris, and was the first to use a metal frame. Pleyel pianos were preferred by Chopin and several other composers of his era, and Chopin was also a regular performer at the Salle Pleyel, a Paris concert hall sponsored by the piano company, which still exists. The piano "looks different" to Sarah because it had fewer keys than a modern piano, and started on a low C (modern pianos start on an A). The piece Jareth played for Sarah is Chopin's Prelude in E minor, Op. 28, No. 4; link in my profile. You probably know it._

_The name Ciro comes from the Greek word Cirocco, and means "wind."_

_The title of this chapter comes from a quote from C.S. Lewis, from A Grief Observed: "No one ever told me that grief felt so much like fear."_

_Many thanks as always to **etcetera nine**__for brainstorming, editing, and sanity._


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